She nods. Some of the tension between her shoulders moves away from her ears.
“And how was your day?” she asks, as if trading the question evens the ground.
“Legal, then operations,” I say. “Caldwell widened the subpoenas. We narrowed scope in a motion his staff will mischaracterize to anybody who will type it. A teenager drew for an hour. He named a playlist. He doesn’t know I heard that part.”
“You did,” she says.
“I did,” I confirm.
She takes a shallow sip. The wine is clean and dark.
A steward would bring the first course here. We’re alone. I reach for the covered tray at the sideboard and bring it myself.
She watches me like you watch a person who could be a firefighter or an arsonist depending on the minute. I set a plateof cold greens dressed with oil, thin slices of pear, and a little cheese shaved on top in front of her. She waits for me to sit before she picks up a fork.
She eats two bites without a comment. Her eyes sharpen, not soften. “You’re not subtle tonight.”
“Subtlety is a tool,” I say. “Not a value.”
“And manipulation?” she asks.
“A tactic,” I say. “Not an ethic.”
We don’t pretend those answers aren’t ugly. We let them sit between us with the silver and the glass. When she raises her wine again, her hand isn’t shaking. The first time I saw her hands shake was the studio. The second was the clinic.
“Tell me about Caldwell,” she says. “Not the version you feed editors. The one you say when you don’t have to be polite.”
“He wants a reputation,” I say. “He believes his attempt at transparency is a disinfectant. He has never treated a wound. He thinks light is always antiseptic. It isn’t. Sometimes it’s infection because it invites flies.”
“And you think darkness is safety,” she says.
“I think controlled exposure saves lives,” I say. “Which is not the same thing as secrecy for its own sake.”
“You built a hidden wing under your own house,” she says. “Don’t sell me semantics.”
Then I lift my glass and take a slow sip.
“The first Sanctuary wasn’t for strangers,” I say. If I’m going to use honesty to cut, I owe her one of mine. “It was for someone I couldn’t save.”
The room changes shape when I say it. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t look away. I hold her eyes. Her mouth opens and closes like she’s editing three reactions into one.
“Who?” she asks.
“My mother ran a shelter,” I say. “A woman named Lena came through the door. She believed a court order was a shield.She believed a new lock would be a wall. She believed me when I saidyou’re safe. I told her that sentence because I needed it to be true more than I needed anything. A man who wanted to be a god with a key proved me wrong. I used to think light saved. Then I learned that sometimes all it does is show a target where to aim.”
“Your scars aren’t just on your body,” she whispers.
“No, they are not.”
We don’t talk while we finish the plates. She uses the side of her fork to chase a slice of pear. She’s aware of her hands and of me watching.
I bring the second course in two motions. Simple fish, rice, greens. She waits again for me to sit. When the plates are where they belong, I reach for the small plate at the center with four pieces of fruit. I lift the pear and hold it between index and thumb.
“Don’t,” she scoffs.
“Don’t what?” I ask.
“Turn food into a test,” she says.
