The black cowboy hat he always wears is pulled low over his eyes.
For a second, memory sneaks in where it isn’t welcome.
I remember the way he used to set that hat on my head and laugh when it slipped down over my face.
I remember the way he would pull it off again just so he could kiss me.
He’s more handsome now than the last time I saw him.
Harder.
Sharper around the edges.
Time didn’t break Boone Grant.
It refined him.
Some things never change.
Some things never heal.
“Still walking like you expect someone to shoot you,” I say as he stops in front of me.
His mouth curves faintly.
“Still standing like you’re daring them to try.”
For a moment neither of us moves.
The air between us holds years of unfinished conversation.
Then I hand him the file.
“You’re late,” he says.
“You always arrive early,” I reply. “It balances.”
His eyes flick to mine.
Sharp.
Assessing.
Familiar in a way that tightens my chest whether I like it or not.
“So,” he says, tapping the folder against his palm. “Sentinel’s mess?”
“His echo,” I correct. “Different architect. Same blueprint.”
We start walking toward the hangar.
The morning sun is beginning to creep over the mountains beyond the runway, turning the sky pale gold. The wind carries the smell of jet fuel and cold air.
Inside the file are photographs.
Smiling people.
Group barbecues.
