"Sarah Andrews. NSA, signals intelligence." I shake his hand. It's a firm grip, callused palms. Hands that do more than type reports.
"I know. Looked up your background after Harper mentioned you'd be briefing today." That almost-smile again. "Top-tier school, mathematics and computer science. Top of your class at NSA training. Youngest analyst ever promoted to senior intelligence specialist."
Heat creeps up my neck. "You researched me?"
"Professional curiosity." He releases my hand but doesn't step back. "Anyone who can identify communication patterns in heavily encrypted terrorist traffic is worth knowing."
"Flattery doesn't work on me."
"Good thing I don't do flattery." He doesn't look away. "Just stating observable facts."
My brain screams boundaries while my pulse does something entirely different. This is a joint briefing, standard interagency cooperation. Except the way he's looking at me suggests he's thinking about things that have nothing to do with terrorist network assessments.
"I should..." I gesture toward the door. "Reports to file."
"Right. Of course." But he doesn't move. "Question, though. About the Istanbul node."
We spend fifteen minutes dissecting the Istanbul operations while standing in an empty briefing room, him asking questions that prove he understands signals intelligence better than most career analysts. Conversation flows easily, naturally, both of us thinking three steps ahead and arriving at the same conclusions through different analytical paths.
"Coffee?" The word escapes before my brain approves it.
Micah's eyebrow lifts. "Professional debrief?"
"Something like that."
NSA headquarters cafeteria serves terrible coffee, but neither of us seems to care. We claim a corner table away from the lunch rush, and coffee becomes sandwiches becomes hours of conversation that ranges from intelligence methodology to operational philosophy to why we both chose careers that require security clearances and silence about what we actually do.
"My father was Army," I hear myself saying. "Multiple deployments, Afghanistan and Iraq. Came home different each time. Quieter. More distant." My coffee's gone cold. "PTSD doesn't care how strong you are. Just... takes pieces until there's not much left."
Micah's expression shifts. I see recognition there, understanding. "My mother left when I was eight. Couldn't handle my father's work, the silence, the classified missions he couldn't talk about. One day she just... wasn't there anymore."
"I'm sorry."
"Long time ago." But his eyes say it still cuts. "Learned early that people leave. Especially when the work gets hard."
There it is. A warning wrapped in biographical fact. I've been abandoned before. I expect it again.
My turn to offer truth. "Dad taught me to recognize patterns. In data, in behavior, in how systems work." I meet Micah's gaze. "But understanding patterns doesn't always help. Sometimes you see the breakdown coming and can't stop it."
"No. But you can prepare for it."
"Is that what you do? Prepare for people leaving?"
"Usually." He studies his coffee cup. "Keeps expectations realistic."
Around us, NSA employees cycle through the cafeteria. They grab lunch, conduct quiet conversations, maintain the carefulprofessional distance required in a building full of secrets. Nobody pays attention to two people talking over coffee.
"Realistic expectations sound lonely," I say quietly.
"Safer than hoping for something that won't last." Micah looks up. "Your father. How is he now?"
Past tense would be more accurate, but I can't quite say it. "Managing. He moved somewhere remote. Small town, lots of space. Says the quiet helps."
"You visit?"
"When I can." Which isn't often enough. "Work doesn't exactly allow regular vacations."
"No, it doesn't." Micah checks his watch, grimaces. "I should get back to Langley. Debriefing in an hour."
