“Fine,” I replied.
“You?”
He shrugged slightly. “Been in worse safe houses.”
His eyes flicked around the room. “At least this one has hot water.”
He closed the laptop halfway and leaned back.
“You ever spend much time in California before?”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed.
“A little.”
I hesitated. “Mostly the bad parts.”
He gave a short laugh.
“Same.”
He shifted his weight. “Grew up in San Diego. Navy dad — we moved every few years. Learned to pack fast and attach slow.”
He tapped the edge of the laptop.
“Left at eighteen for Quantico. The Bureau became the constant.”
His gaze lifted to mine.
“You?”
I gave a faint smile. “Long story.”
“Most good ones are.”
“Mostly New York the last four years.”
He nodded slowly. “New Yorkers always think the rest of the country is just background noise.”
“Only because it usually is.”
He grinned. “Fair.”
He tilted his head. “But California’s got its own rhythm.”
He gestured vaguely toward the window.
“Beaches. Traffic. Sunshine that makes people forget how messed up everything is for about five minutes.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“Only if you like smog and existential dread.”
We both chuckled.
The laughter was light. Controlled. It felt safe.
Neither of us mentioned the real reason we were here.
