“It sounded like one.”
“No. A pitch would have included numbers.”
“And have the numbers behaved today?”
She looked down into her coffee as if consulting it. “Mixed.”
“Devastating.”
She looked up again. “You don’t trust me.”
“Should I?”
“No.”
The word came out flat and clean. Not defensive. Not flirtatious. Just true.
My fingers tightened around the mug.
She set the mug down. “You shouldn’t trust anyone who asks operational questions before lunch. It’s bad character.”
“That’s the first thing we’ve agreed on.”
Another flash of amusement. Short enough that if I’d blinked I’d have missed it.
I should have stood up then. Left her to the rest of the retreat. Gone back to the service yard and the boundary reports and the sort of work that behaved when you gave it enough attention.
Instead I found myself asking, “Why law?”
Juliette’s fingers paused on the notebook. “Because when I was twenty-two, I still believed facts won.”
“And now?”
“Now I know they need help.”
The deck fell quiet between us. Below, a hornbill clattered out of a tree with the grace of falling cutlery.
I took another sip of tea.
“Why did you stop?” I asked.
Her thumb traced once over the edge of the notebook. “Because eventually I got tired of spending my days in rooms where everyone lied professionally.” Her mouth shifted, not quite a smile. “Also because my father died.”
My fingers tightened once around the mug.
She looked at me. “You?”
I met her gaze for a second. “Military first.”
The corner of her mouth moved. “I suspected as much.”
I leaned back against the railing. “Then this.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re leaving out the middle.”
I studied the valley instead of her. “There’s a reason.”
“Is it classified?”
