She looks out the window.“Feeling something and acting on it are different things.”
“Are they?You could’ve ignored my text.You didn’t.”
“I came because you’re a client.”
“Bullshit.”
I regret the volume the second it leaves my mouth.Not the truth—just the force.
Heads turn at nearby tables.An older woman in pearls raises an eyebrow.I lean closer, dropping my voice.This isn’t a scene I want to make with her.“You came because this isn’t finished.And you know it.”
Her gaze flicks up—unguarded, vulnerable, real—for just a breath.
“What do you want from me?”she whispers.
“Everything,” I say.“Starting with the truth.You.Whatever that looks like now.”
“You want a fantasy.”She straightens, composure snapping back.“You want the woman who never existed.”
“I want the woman sitting in front of me.The one who can pick a lock in thirty seconds and still drink mint tea like it’s an art form.I want her not as an escape, as an answer.”
Silence stretches, heavy with risky possibility.
Finally, she stands, leaving bills on the table.
“I live six blocks from here,” she says quietly.“If you want to walk me home, that’s your choice.But you’re not coming in.”
The boundary should cool me off.It doesn’t.It makes everything sharper.“I’ll walk you.”
Outside, the October air smells of rain and rusted leaves.A few streetlights blink on early, amber halos cutting through the late-afternoon haze.We fall into step too easily—close enough that I catch her warmth through the wool of her sweater, close enough that one wrong swing of my hand would be contact.
“You really searched for me for six months?”she asks.
“Six months actively.Three years mentally.”
“That’s…” she exhales.“Romantic.”
“Foolish,” I counter.
“Foolish,” she agrees softly.“But romantic.”
“I don’t do things halfway.”
“I’ve noticed.”
We pass a park where an old man feeds pigeons, the birds trusting his consistency.
“What happened to Sophie Dubois?”I ask.
“She was retired.Exposed.”
“But the art knowledge—the piano—that was real.”
“The best covers are built on truth.”
“And the worst lies,” I murmur, “on omission.”
Her glance holds reluctant respect.“You’re more perceptive than I expected.”
