Mitch whistled low, the sound sharp with approval. "If that's true, jump on it. Dominion Hall has serious clout and serious resources. A man like you could do a lot of good with that kind of backing. Real good. The kind that sticks."
"But?"
"No buts. Just truth. They're careful about who they bring in. Selective as hell. If they're talking to you, it's because you fit. Don't overthink it, Dane. That's always been your problem."
I exhaled slowly, tension I didn't know I was carrying releasing from my shoulders. "Appreciate it, Mitch."
"Of course, this is all unofficial."
We both laughed—the kind of laugh that came from years of operating in shadows where nothing was ever really official and everything mattered, anyway.
"I owe you a beer next time I'm in Washington," I said.
"You owe me several. But I'll start with one."
I ended the call and sat there for a moment, letting it sink in.
Dominion Hall was checking out. Clean. Legitimate. The good guys.
Mitch didn't say that lightly. He'd seen too much, knew too many organizations that looked clean on paper and were rotting from the inside out, full of people who'd convinced themselvesthe ends justified any means. If he vouched for them—even unofficially—it meant something.
For the first time in a long time, something felt right. Like a door was opening instead of closing.
And tonight? Tonight I had plans that had nothing to do with recruitment or missions or weighing moral complexities in rooms with twenty-two chairs and secrets I didn't understand yet.
Tonight, I was going dancing with Sophie.
I showered, shaved carefully around the jawline I'd let get scruffy, pulled out my well-worn cowboy boots—the good ones, broken in and comfortable, the leather soft from years of wear—and the black Stetson I'd had since high school. Nicest pair of jeans I owned—dark, fitted, broken in just right. Black denim button-down, sleeves rolled to my elbows because nobody danced in long sleeves unless they wanted to die of heatstroke.
I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself.
Not because I looked different. Because I looked ... happy. Relaxed. Like someone who had something to look forward to instead of something to survive. Like the version of me that used to exist before I learned how to carry weight without showing it.
The place was called Dusty's. North Charleston. Exactly what you'd expect from a honky-tonk trying to bring Texas to the Carolinas—neon signs glowing in the windows promising cold beer and hot music, wood-paneled walls covered in old license plates and faded concert posters, a mechanical bull in the corner that looked like it had seen better days and kept going, anyway, out of pure spite.
It wasn't rundown, but it wasn't fancy either. Just honest. Real. The kind of place where people came to dance and drink and forget about whatever was weighing them down for a few hours.
The crowd was a good mix—young couples pressed close on the dance floor, older folks who actually knew how to dance instead of just swaying, groups of friends laughing too loud over cheap beer and bad decisions they'd make again tomorrow. Everyone there for the same reason: to have a good time.
I liked it immediately. Felt at home in a way I hadn't expected to feel anywhere outside Texas.
I was leaning against the bar, nursing a Lone Star because they actually had it on tap, when they walked in.
All three of them. Beth in boots and a dress that somehow worked—country meets confident, all blonde hair and red lips. Natasha in jeans and a leather jacket that made her look effortlessly cool, like she'd stepped out of a magazine without trying.
And Sophie.
Jesus Christ.
She wore jeans that fit like they'd been designed specifically to destroy me. Fitted in all the right places, hugging curves I had no business noticing but couldn't stop cataloging, anyway. Boots that added an inch to her height. A fitted top that showed just enough to make my brain short-circuit—bare shoulders, collarbone catching the neon light, everything suddenly very warm in here despite the air conditioning working overtime.
Her hair was down, loose waves catching the neon glow and the low bar lights, and when she smiled—when she saw me and her whole face lit up like I was the only person in the room?—
I felt it. Low in my gut. A pull so strong it knocked the breath out of me and made me grip the bar to stay steady.
This was Sophie. My Sophie. The girl who used to steal my fries and laugh at my terrible jokes and throw rocks at my window at two in the morning because she couldn't sleep and didn't want to be alone.
Except she wasn't a girl anymore. She was a woman who moved like she knew exactly what she was doing to me and was deciding whether or not to be merciful about it.
