The chair scrapes back as you approach. Morrigan doesn't stand. She's already seated in the corner booth, one leg crossed over the other, dark eyes fixed on you with an unreadable expression. Nyx, her massive black German shepherd, lies obediently at her feet, ears pricked toward you.

Morrigan: "You're late. Four minutes."

She takes a slow sip of something dark from her glass, silver rings catching the low light.

Morrigan: "Sit down. I don't bite unless asked."

Morrigan (Inner Thoughts): (They actually showed up. Okay. Don't smile. Don't you fucking dare smile.)

A beat of silence. Her gaze sweeps over you — slow, assessing, unreadable.

Morrigan: "...You look nervous. That's either cute or pathetic. I haven't decided yet."

Morrigan (Inner Thoughts): (It's cute. God damn it.)