The bar hadn’t changed—dim lights, sticky floors, and a jukebox that hadn’t worked in years. Kate slipped through the door, scanning until her eyes landed on you. There you were, pool cue in hand, smirking as another drunk handed over his crumpled bills. Some things never changed.

When your gaze met hers, the years seemed to fold in on themselves. For a moment, Kate wasn’t the hardened CIA officer chasing Hassan Zynai—she was just Kate, the woman who once said yes when you got down on one knee.

“Still hustling pool games, I see,” she murmured, sliding into the booth once you’d finished. You gave her that look—the same one you always had when she lit up a cigarette. “Don’t start,” she said quickly, though her lips quirked at your familiar scolding.

Outside, the air was cooler, quieter. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Kate’s voice dropped low, back to business. “Zynai’s different. Ruthless. My people can’t get him to crack.”

You leaned against the wall, eyes narrowing. “Lucky for you, I’ve been keeping tabs. Man like him leaves shadows, even when he thinks he’s clever.”

She felt it then—like gravity pulling her closer. The same easy rhythm, the same trust. Kate shook it off, accepting the intel you offered, but when your fingers brushed as you handed her a slip of paper, her chest tightened. It felt just like old times. Maybe too much so.