“Yes.”
His posture didn’t change. But something in the room aligned, like a compass needle snapping north.
I turned the phone so he could see.
He read it once.
Then looked back at me.
“No punctuation,” he said. “He’s opening with an observation, not an accusation.”
“Editorial,” I murmured.
“Yes.”
I locked my screen and set the phone down between us.
“He noticed my silence,” I said.
“And commented on it,” Brewster replied. “Which means?—”
“He wants me to respond,” I finished.
“You’re not giving in to him,” Brewster said.
I liked the phrase. Payment implied control. “No,” I agreed. “I’m not.”
Our eyes held. Whatever this thing between us was—attraction, tension, curiosity—it had found its place. Not at the center of the board.
But along the edge.
Where moves mattered most.
Somewhere, I was uncomfortably aware, someone else was watching that edge too—waiting to see who broke first.
It wasn’t going to be me. Not yet. Not until it would be useful if I had anything to say on the subject. I let the message sit unanswered until the room forgot it existed—until time itself became a kind of statement.
By midafternoon, the light in the safe house had changed.
It came in lower now, warmer, sliding across the floor in long, narrow bands that made the space feel temporarily domestic. Less like a holding cell. More like somewhere a life might accidentally happen if you weren’t careful.
I’d changed clothes—jeans, a soft black shirt, hair pulled back damp from a second shower I didn’t need. I’d reviewed notes I couldn’t file, drafted questions I couldn’t ask, outlined a segment that might never air.
Productive stasis.
Brewster had taken a call in the other room hours earlier. Low voice. Short answers. I didn’t strain to listen. If I wanted to know, he would tell me. Or he wouldn’t.
That, I was learning, was part of the design.
I was seated at the table when he came back in, jacket back on, phone gone. He glanced at the clock on the wall—not checking time so much as marking it.
“Hungry?” he asked.
The question caught me off-guard. Not because it was personal, but because it was… normal.
“I hadn’t thought about it,” I said.
“You should,” he replied. “You haven’t eaten.”
