Jennifer's hand was already moving toward the phone behind the counter.
Not rushing — the deliberate, measured reach of a woman who has made decisions under pressure before and knows that panic is a tax you don't have to pay.
"I'm calling the police." Flat. Final. The same tone she used on suppliers who tried to short her flour deliveries.
Raven did not move.
He stood in the center of the bakery floor — still wearing nothing but the spare apron she'd thrown at him, the cloth barely covering what it needed to cover, tile dust still settling around his bare feet — and watched her reach for the phone with the patient expression of a man who has already seen how this ends.
"You're going to tell them a man fell through your ceiling," he said.
Jennifer's fingers found the phone.
"From the sky." He tilted his head. "Three stories. Onto tile floor."
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
"And walked away."
She didn't dial.
