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“Some solo stuff. Small-scale financial fraud cases, redirecting stolen funds back to victims.” She shrugged. “I call them my knitting projects. Same careful stitch over and over. Gets the job done but not exactly thrilling.”

“And this is different?”

“Much different. This feels like it matters. I guess my knitting projects matter too, but not like this case.”

“This case is important to all of us.”

“As it should be. We’ve got to get those kids rescued.” She slowly spun her cup around on the table. “I guess when it’s over, I’ll go back to knitting projects and disco playlists and talking to my computer by myself.”

She said it lightly, but he heard what was underneath it. Loneliness. Not the kind that came from being alone. The kind that came from knowing you were good at something important and having nowhere to put it.

“When I get back…” he said and stopped.

Fuck.

“When you get back, what?”

He didn’t know how to finish it.

When I get back, I want to do this again at any café you want.

When I get back, I want to hear you laugh. I want to see you dance again.

When I get back, I want to tell you that you’re the first person in four years who’s made me feel like I might not be completely ruined.

“How about when you get back, you owe me a coffee,” she said. “A good one.”

“Deal.” He couldn’t ever give her more than that, but one cup of coffee he could do.

She held his gaze and he held hers and the café was quiet and warm, and for a few seconds, neither of them needed to say anything else.

Then the door banged open.

Seven or eight operatives poured in, loud and physical and running on the kind of energy Ryder recognized immediately. They’d just come off a successful operation. Voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls, bodies filling the counter, chairs scraping. Someone cranked up music on a phone.

He knew that feeling. Too wired to sleep, too amped to be alone. The particular high of having pulled something off successfully and needing your team around you while it wound down.

The small space that had been theirs was suddenly packed with noise and bodies.

Cassandra dropped her eyes to the table. Her hands went still around her mug.

“They just came off an op,” he said. “I know the feeling. They’re just blowing off steam. It’ll settle down.”

She nodded without looking up. That was fine. She was uncomfortable around strangers, and he needed to stop expecting anything different. He’d learned over the past few days that the version of Cassandra other people saw and the version he saw when they were alone were two different people.

But maybe he could help. Maybe she just didn’t want to have to start up a conversation. “You want me to introduce you? You’ve been here almost a week, and I doubt you’ve met anyone outside the core team.”

“No.” Fast. “No, I’m fine.”

He didn’t push.

Two operatives broke away from the group and headed toward their table. One of them, a tall guy with close-cropped hair and an old scar running through his left eyebrow, clapped Ryder on the shoulder.

“Hey, I’ve seen you around the compound this week. I’m Kimball. You working a case here?”

“Ryder Sutton. Yeah, I’m in for a few days.”

“Nice.” The guy looked at Cassandra. His energy shifted. He was riding the high of a successful mission and there was a pretty woman in front of him and he made the calculation most men in his position would make. “And who’s this?”