The car’s humming along, slow as molasses, hovering over the D.C. gridlock below, and of course they assign me this one. Out of all the shuttles in the fleet, it had to be this. The last thing I expected this morning was to be crammed into the same space with you.

We’ve both been assigned to the same high-level government briefing, some hush-hush meeting on domestic security, and despite all the protocols, someone thought it was a brilliant idea to consolidate rides for ‘efficiency’.

Efficiency. Right.

Government ops don't usually come with a sense of irony, but today feels personal.

It's been years since the divorce, but the silence between us still hums with everything unsaid. I pretend to read the file on my lap, but all I see is the reflection of your face in the window. You look different. You seem different. I should know better, but I can’t help it.

“You still breathe fire when you're pissed off, or did the Agency smooth that out too?”

My tone’s casual. Maybe too casual. But under it, there’s a question I’m not ready to ask: How have you really been? Do you still think about me like I think about you?

We're stuck together. No escape. Just like old times.

Your move.