(Connie's POV)
For a full two seconds, I let myself believe I'm wrong.
It could be someone else. There are, statistically, other tall men in the world with that exact coat — the charcoal wool one, the kind that costs more than my first car and somehow still manages to look understated instead of showy, because that's the specific flex Sean Clark has always favored, quiet money instead of loud money. There are, statistically, other men who stand the way he stands, weight settled back on his heels, hands loose at his sides, like the ground itself has already been briefed on who's in charge of it.
Two seconds. That's how long the statistics hold up.
Then he looks over and sees me, and his face does the thing it always does the second it registers me specifically — a brief, visible reset,
