I nodded, turning the name over in my mind. "And your family? Where are they from?"
His gaze flicked toward the window. "Georgia originally. Macon. Military on both sides. My grandfather was a decorated Marine. My mother’s father served in Korea."
I blinked. "And you?"
"Army. Intelligence," he said evenly. "Then, the Agency. Special Activities Division. Until I came to work for you.”
The floor tilted slightly beneath me. "You were CIA?"
He gave a small, almost apologetic nod. "Among other things."
"And now you guard—us."
"I protect people," he said. "That’s what I’ve always done."
I studied him then. Really studied him. The precision. The way he moved. The quiet control.
"You’re more than I thought."
He met my gaze. "So are you."
Something in my chest squeezed.
I’d looked right through him for years. And I thought about how many others I’d overlooked the same way.
Quentin. Charlie. Myself.
Maybe it was time to stop. Maybe it was time to start seeing what was right in front of me.
Quentin didn’t shift under my gaze. He didn’t fidget or clear his throat or hide behind polite silence the way people often did in this house. He just sat there, steady and unflinching, like he’d been waiting years to be seen.
I leaned back slightly, something softer threading through my voice. “Do you have a family, Quentin?”
A flicker crossed his face—so fast I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t been watching so closely.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “A daughter. She’s eleven.”
I blinked. “You have a daughter?”
He nodded once, like it was a fact of the weather. “Her name’s Layla. She lives with her mother in Atlanta.”
My stomach turned a little. “I didn’t know.”
“You weren’t supposed to.” He gave a small, knowing smile. “This job requires discretion. Distance. I never wanted my personal life to interfere with your family’s.”
Something about the way he said it made my throat go tight.
“Do you see her?” I asked, my voice gentler now.
“Every chance I get,” he said. “Which isn’t often. Her mother and I—we were never married. She didn’t want this kind of life touching Layla’s.”
“This kind of life?” I echoed.
He met my eyes. “Danger. Secrets. What I did before. What I still do, in a different uniform.”
The room felt smaller then. Not in a claustrophobic way, but in the way a theater quiets right before a pivotal scene.
“Do you miss her?” I asked.
