“Died when I was eight. Firefighter. Line of duty.” The words come out flat, practiced. “Mom never remarried.”
“I’m sorry.” She tilts her head, studying me. “That must have been hard. Growing up without him.”
“It was.” I lean back, watching her gradually unfold. Each question she asks, she sits up a little straighter. “Do you see your mom often?”
“Not enough. Maybe twice a year.”
“That must be hard. For both of you.”
“It is.” I could take my turn now, but she’s on a roll. Her voice is finding its rhythm, that analytical mind starting to surface. “What about your family?”
“Parents in Chicago. Dad teaches mathematics. Mom’s a lawyer.”
“Still together?”
“Somehow, yes. Thirty-five years.” She tilts her head, studying me. “They think I make bad choices.”
“Do you?”
“Probably.” She pulls the sleeves down over her hands. “Nathan was definitely a bad choice.”
The fact that she’s volunteering information without prompting—this is progress. Major progress. I want to keep her talking, keep hearing this voice that Nathan tried to silence.
“My turn. Question six. Why did you stop talking?”
“Asked and answered, already.” She goes still again. When she speaks, it’s barely a whisper. “But it was easier than being told I was too much.”
“You’re not too much.”
She considers this, head tilted. “Are you with someone? In a relationship?”
“No.”
“When’s the last time you were?”
“That’s two questions.”
“You let me ask five in a row earlier.”
She’s right. And the fact that she noticed—that she’s pushing back even slightly—is progress.
“Three years ago. Ended when I got back from Syria.”
“What happened?”
“I came back different. Couldn’t let anyone close. Couldn’t trust. She tried for a year, then gave up.”
The truth is darker. After Syria, after Amara’s betrayal—Mitchell’s asset who radioed our position while I was still inside her—no one’s touched me.
Not really.
The encounters are all the same. Like the woman in the bar. My fingers bringing them to climax, their mouths on me, then done. No kissing. No lingering touches. No tenderness. Just a means to an end, getting off without vulnerability. No names, no numbers, no second meetings.
No one gets close enough to betray me.
But Talia? She’s touched me more in the last twenty-four hours than any woman has in three years. Her hands on my skin while tending my wounds. Gentle. Careful. The kind of touch I haven’t allowed since before Syria. The kind that means something.
“That must have been lonely,” she says softly.
