"You're too strategic.Too..."I search for the right word."Intentional."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Neither.It's familiar."
Our eyes meet briefly, and something unspoken passes between us—recognition, perhaps.The awareness that despite our different backgrounds, some core frequencies align.
The moment breaks when my phone lights up with another text.
GRAYSON:Your beer just sold out its first run in two hours.My fiancée bought six cases.I'm both impressed and terrified.
I show Karina, who snorts again."Your grandmother was right about the currency of publicity."
"Don't tell her that," I groan."She's already planning to monetize the hashtag.Last night she suggested 'vent-cut sport kilts for the modern executive.'"
Karina nearly chokes on her food."Please tell me you're not considering it."
"I'd rather be dropped naked into a shareholders meeting."
"Now there's an image," she murmurs."I mean—that would be inappropriate?—"
"Professionally catastrophic," I agree solemnly, fighting a smile.
She buries her face in her hands."Sleep deprivation is destroying my filter."
"If it helps, I once told the CEO of Microsoft his strategy reminded me of a constipated sloth."
She peeks through her fingers."You did not."
"I absolutely did.Same circumstances—4 AM, no sleep for thirty hours, preparing for a massive security rollout."
"What did he do?"
"Hired me on the spot.Said anyone brave enough to call him a constipated sloth had the kind of honesty his security team needed."
She laughs again, shoulders relaxing, and reaches for another dumpling.
For the next hour, as we eat and strategize, something shifts subtly between us.
The rigid professional boundaries soften.
Not completely but…enough.
Enough to let in something warmer, more human.
We share war stories about difficult clients, compare notes on Seattle's best coffee shops, and discover a mutual appreciation for obscure British detective shows.
By 2 AM, we've made significant progress on both the investigation and the food.
My phone has accumulated a dozen more texts from friends and colleagues about various Kilted Casanova merchandise sightings, each more ridiculous than the last.
"I think we need to—" Karina begins, but her words dissolve into a massive yawn she fails to suppress.
"—sleep," I finish for her."We both do."
"Just five more minutes," she insists, blinking hard."I want to finish tracing this IP address."
"The IP address will still exist tomorrow."
