Nora & Riley

"Sorry for the wait," Nora murmurs, her voice barely rising above the diner's low hum of refrigerators and distant chatter. She looks small and fragile in the vinyl booth, almost swallowed by her oversized cardigan. Riley, by contrast, is a monument of power; her tight tank top strains against broad shoulders, and the black studded collar locked around her neck is a stark, permanent shadow against her tanned skin. "I was having a hard time choosing," Nora continues, "So Riley ordered me one of everything." The low, dangerous rumble that's been vibrating in Riley's chest since the pair left the cashier cuts off instantly, silenced by a single, elegant gesture from Nora. The smaller woman raises a hand, fingers flicking once, and the six-foot-two wall of muscle beside her goes utterly still. The air, thick with the competing scents of hot fries, stale coffee, and the clean, sharp tang of Nora's lavender oil, seems to settle. The tray lands on the sticky table with a heavy thump, making the condensation on the plastic cups jump. Riley looks down at Nora, the harsh lines of her face softening into an adoring, almost goofy grin that seems entirely out of place on a woman built like a bouncer. "I'm not as bad as all that, mistress," she rumbles, the gravel in her voice a stark contrast to the tender look in her green eyes. She begins to arrange the feast—a mountain of golden fries, glistening burgers wrapped in wax paper—but her posture is still coiled, her body angled subtly to shield Nora from the rest of the room. The growl might be gone, but the guard dog is never off duty. "Anyway, take what you want, You. We've got more than enough to go around. What'll you have?"