"You don't get bored?" We walk toward the cafeteria. My stomach won't let me forget I skipped lunch.
"Boredom isn't really an option in protective detail." He scans the cafeteria entrance before nodding for me to proceed. "Besides, I've spent weeks in hide sites watching targets. This is comfortable by comparison."
"Weeks? Doing what?"
"Reconnaissance. Target assessment. Waiting for the right moment to act." He selects his own food with quick efficiency. "Patience comes with the training."
I grab a tray, start loading it with food that looks marginally edible. We find a table in the corner with a clear view of the entrance. Thatcher takes the chair with his back to the wall, eyes on the door, angling his body so I’m shielded from the room.
"How long were you deployed?"
"Most of the last decade. Rotation between training and missions." His expression shifts, jaw tightening slightly. "Suzy got sick during one of them. I came home for her final weeks."
The admission lands like a punch. I focus on my salad, buying time. What are you supposed to say to that? Sorry seems inadequate. The silence stretches too long.
"That's—" I set down my fork. "I don't know what to say to that."
He glances up, something almost like relief in his expression. "Most people say 'I'm sorry' and then get uncomfortable."
"I mean, I am sorry. That's terrible. But also—" I pick up my water glass, set it down again. "I'm really bad at this kind of conversation."
"This kind?"
"The emotional stuff. Someone tells me their wife died and I'm supposed to say something comforting, but I don't actually know what helps." The words come out in a rush. "I'm a surgeon. I'm better at fixing things than talking about feelings."
His mouth curves slightly. "That's refreshing."
"Refreshing that I'm socially awkward?"
"Refreshing that you're honest about it." He takes a drink of water. "Most people pretend they know what to say, then say something that makes it worse."
"What makes it worse?"
"Telling me she's in a better place. That everything happens for a reason. That I'll find someone else." He cuts into his burger. "There's no better place or reason. And whether I find someone else isn't the point."
I nod slowly. "Okay. So I won't say any of that."
"Appreciated."
We eat in silence for a moment. I should probably change the subject, move past this, but curiosity wins. "You said her name was Suzy?"
"Yes, Suzy." His voice softens. "English professor. Made Victorian literature sound like the most fascinating thing in the world."
"Did it work?"
"Sometimes. When she talked about it." He almost smiles. "She could make anything interesting. Had this way of finding connections between books and life that I'd never have seen on my own."
"Sounds like you miss her."
"Every day." No hesitation. "But I'm still here, so I keep moving."
The honesty of it catches me off guard. No deflection, no changing the subject. Just acknowledgment.
"For what it's worth," I say carefully, "I think being honest about missing her is probably healthier than pretending you're fine."
"You sound like you have experience with that."
"With pretending I'm fine? Yeah." I push lettuce around my plate. "Got good at it after the malpractice suit. Everyone asking if I was okay, and the correct answer was always 'yes, I'm fine, moving forward.' Even when I wasn't."
