I silence the phone for now. One more minute. I hand her the second cup of coffee. She takes it, fingers brushing mine.
“This part,” she says quietly, nodding toward the screen. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see this.”
“You did that.”
“We did.”
I lift my cup slightly.
“To not disappearing.”
She taps her cup lightly against mine.
“To not disappearing.”
The phone vibrates again. Duty calls. And this time, I answer.
The call ends with three words. “Report in person.” No explanation or hints as to what I may expect. That’s typical.
Kat watches me from the edge of the bed, coffee cradled between both hands. The news continues behind her — footage looping, anchors speculating, analysts talking about international ramifications. The world has caught up to what we did.
“I have to go,” I say.
She nods once.
“I know.”
I walk to the window, part the curtain just enough to scan the street below. No visible surveillance. No black SUVs idling. No unusual foot traffic.
Still.
I don’t like leaving her.
“I’ll be back before noon,” I say.
“You don’t know that.”
No. I don’t. I turn toward her fully.
“If anyone knocks, you don’t answer.”
“I won’t.”
“If anything feels off …”
“I leave.”
“Through the service exit.”
“Yes.”
She’s calm. Too calm.
“You don’t have to handle this alone,” she adds quietly.
“I’m not.”
She studies me carefully.
