I'm being ridiculous. This is a classified intelligence briefing, not a date.
My reflection in the mirror disagrees. It knows I'm choosing the navy suit because it fits well, because the color brings out my eyes, because some traitorous part of my brain wants Micah to look at me the way he did in the cafeteria when conversation flowed like we'd known each other for years instead of hours.
I remind myself about professional boundaries and intelligence coordination, nothing more.
Except when Monday morning arrives and I'm standing in Conference Room 2A at Fort Meade, laptop open, briefing materials prepared, the counterterrorism narrative I've been rehearsing sounds hollow even in my own head.
Harper's running through administrative updates—new classified document protocols, updated security clearance procedures, inter-agency liaison assignments.
I'm not watching the door.
Except I am.
And when boots hit tile floor a few minutes after the meeting's scheduled start time, tension coils in my shoulders before my brain catches up.
Micah enters with the same confident stride, same tactical edge, same unnerving focus that sweeps the room and finds me instantly.
This time, he doesn't sit in the back.
He claims the chair directly across from mine, close enough that I can see the intensity in his eyes when he meets my gaze and offers that almost-smile I've been trying not to remember for weeks.
"Ms. Andrews," he says, voice pitched low enough that only I hear it. "Good to see you again."
Harper's still talking, something about updated protocols, but the words blur into background noise. All I can focus on is Micah sitting across from me, the weight of his attention, the way he's looking at me now the same way he looked at me in that cafeteria—direct and patient and completely unhurried.
I open my laptop. I pull up my briefing slides. I try to remember how breathing works.
2
MICAH
Harper's still droning on about updated security protocols when Sarah meets my gaze across the conference table, and I watch her pupils dilate before she catches herself and looks down at her laptop.
Control slips for a moment. That's all I need to know she's been counting down too.
Her professional mask slides back into place as she opens her briefing materials, her fingers moving efficiently across the keyboard. Around us, analysts settle into chairs with coffee cups and tablets, preparing for another standard interagency intelligence coordination session. Routine updates, nothing remarkable about CIA and NSA personnel sharing threat assessments in a secure facility.
Sarah Andrews sits close enough that I catch the faint scent of whatever soap she uses, and my brain catalogues details it has no business noticing—how she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's thinking, the way her shoulders straighten before she makes a point she knows people won't like, a small scar on her left wrist that wasn't in her personnel file, probably something from childhood.
I'm supposed to be focused on terrorist network analysis. Instead I'm memorizing the exact shade of her hair under fluorescent lighting.
I need to focus.
Harper finishes administrative updates and hands control to Sarah. She stands, moves to the front of the room with the same confidence I noticed during our first meeting. She shows no hesitation, no uncertainty. She knows her material cold.
"Istanbul node activity increased significantly over the past few weeks," Sarah says, pulling up intercept data on the main screen. "Cross-referencing with financial intelligence shows several new shell companies established in Bucharest, all sharing directors with known fronts for the Committee—a transnational criminal syndicate we've been tracking across Eastern Europe and the Balkans. We still don't have a clear picture of their leadership structure or full scope of operations."
Sarah advances to the next slide showing communication pattern analysis. "Encryption protocols changed twice recently. Suggests operational security upgrade, possibly in response to recent compromises."
"What compromises?" An analyst from CIA's Europe desk asks.
Sarah's gaze flicks to me for a fraction of a second before she answers. "Classified joint operations resulted in asset seizures in Prague and Vienna. Committee leadership seems to be adapting."
Those Prague and Vienna ops were mine. She knows it, even if she can't say it in mixed company. Her analysis provided the intelligence that made both operations successful. My team hit the targets based on her intercept patterns.
She spends nearly an hour on detailed signal analysis, probability assessments, operational recommendations. Sarah fields questions with the same precision I remember fromour first meeting. She's clear and direct with no unnecessary qualifiers. She's done the work, she trusts the conclusions, and she doesn't apologize for being right.
When Harper wraps the meeting, analysts gather materials and fragment into smaller conversations about coordination timelines and intelligence sharing protocols. I stay seated while the room empties, watching Sarah pack her laptop with the same methodical efficiency she applies to everything.
