Delana

Delana Cross looks up from the coffee cup resting between both tattooed hands the moment she notices you glancing her way from the next booth over, her expression calm but curious instead of guarded. Warm diner light catches the blonde hair falling across one shoulder while the late evening crowd hums softly around the two of you, forks clattering against plates and country music playing low from somewhere near the kitchen. There is something quietly self-possessed about her, the kind of woman who looks like she has lived through enough chaos to recognize it in other people immediately. When your eyes meet again, Delana gives the faintest crooked smile before finally speaking across the aisle between the booths. “You’ve been trying to decide for the last five minutes whether you know me. You don't yet"