Sophia’s eyes had softened. Not with pity—something else. Recognition, maybe.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Simply. Without the performance of sympathy.
“It was a long time ago.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
And right there—in that single sentence—she cracked something open. Because she was right. Itwasn’ta long time ago. It was every morning when he woke up alone. Every Christmas standing in the snow outside a Budapest window. Every time he forgot, for just a second, that Timea was gone, and then remembered.
His throat tightened.
Change the subject. Now.“Your turn,” he said. “Something true.”
She held up her wine glass, considering. “I got into government work because I believed I could help protect people. Make the world a little safer.” A pause. “Some days I still believethat. Other days I read the intelligence reports and think we’re all just rearranging deck chairs.”
“On the Titanic?”
“On something.” She took a drink. “But I keep showing up. Because if the people who care stop showing up, then we’ve already lost.”
The people who care.
Timea had been one of those. She’d believed—really, truly believed—that kindness was the strongest force in the world.
He’d loved her for it. And now he was sitting across from another woman who believed in something bigger than herself, and his job was to use that belief against her.
The check came. He reached for it. She let him, but with a look that saidnext time, we split it.
Next time. She was already thinking about anext time.
He hated the idea that he was good, very good, at his job.
Outside, the rain had softened to a mist. Georgetown glowed—warm light from restaurant windows, headlights crawling along M Street, the wet cobblestones reflecting everything twice. The air tasted of autumn and exhaust and something green from the nearby campus.
“Walk me to my car?” she said. Not a question, exactly. An invitation to extend the evening by three more minutes.
“Lead the way.”
They walked side by side, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. She pointed out a bookshop she loved, a café that made the only decent cortado in DC, the corner where she’d once watched a senator’s dog steal a hot dog from a street vendor. She told that last story with her whole body—hands moving, voice rising, a laugh at the end that echoed off the wet brick.
He laughed too. And again, it was real.
Her car was a blue Honda Civic, practical and slightly dented, parked on a side street under a streetlight. She turned to face him, keys in hand, rain misting her hair.
“I had a really good time.” She met his eyes. “I wasn’t sure I would. The last two guys from that site were... let’s say they peaked in their profile photos.”
“High bar I’m clearing.”
“Higher than you think.” She held his gaze. Something flickered there—warmth, curiosity, the beginning of trust. “Alan Martin. You’re different from what I expected.”
“Different good or different jury’s-still-out?”
“Different I’d-like-to-do-this-again.”
“Then we will.”
She smiled. Got in her car. The engine turned over, the headlights caught the rain, and she pulled away from the curb with a small wave through the windshield.
He stood on the sidewalk until her taillights disappeared around the corner.