Actually valued the ordinary, unhurried rhythm of ordering food and discussing nothing more complex or dangerous than whether the duck or the steak sounded better today.
Is this what peace actually felt like?
Real peace, not just absence of immediate conflict?
I'd always laughed at the word before. Dismissed it as something for other people. Something weak that got you killed.
But this ... this felt right in a way I couldn't adequately explain.
Like something I didn't know I'd been missing until it appeared.
We took our time once the food started arriving in careful succession.
I ordered half the menu without exaggeration—duck confit with impossibly crispy skin, steak frites cooked perfectly rare, mussels in white wine and garlic to start, a side of ratatouille just to analyze the technique.
Ella ordered something lighter, claimed she wasn't particularly hungry after everything, but spent the entire meal stealing deliberate bites from my various plates and making small satisfied sounds that made me want to cook for her properly in an actual kitchen.
Feed her until she made those sounds on purpose.
The waiter moved through the small dining room with that perfect French balance I appreciated—attentive enough to anticipate needs but never hovering awkwardly, appearing exactly when needed with fresh bread or wine refills but never interrupting actual conversation.
We talked about genuinely nothing important.
Her favorite foods and why. My total, somewhat embarrassing inability to bake anything despite being reasonably competent with savory dishes. Whether Paris had already ruined American coffee for her permanently.
Normal things.
Human things.
The kind of easy conversation I'd never really had with anyone before.
All in all, it was shaping up to be an absolutely perfect Paris afternoon.
The kind of afternoon normal people got to have regularly.
Then I saw Ellsworth walking across the street outside, and everything shifted.
My entire body went on immediate, instinctive alert.
Every muscle tensing automatically. Every sense sharpening to combat readiness.
I realized with sudden, deeply uncomfortable clarity that I'd left my phone back at Rose's apartment—still in my jacket pocket where I'd forgotten it completely.
Unreachable. No way for anyone to contact me directly if something had developed.
Sloppy. Dangerous. Unlike me.
Ellsworth moved with his usual controlled precision—shoulders back, stride measured and purposeful, expression carefully neutral.
Like absolutely nothing was wrong.
Like he was just a well-dressed older gentleman walking with casual purpose through a pleasant Parisian afternoon.
But I could feel it underneath the flawless performance.
The deliberateness in his gait that went beyond normal walking. The way his eyes found mine immediately through the restaurant window without seeming to search or scan. The slight tension in his jaw that most people would never notice but I'd learned to read.
Something significant had happened.
