The hostage situation ended forty-two minutes ago.
I know that because I checked the time when the final suspect was taken into custody. Technically speaking, the operation concluded successfully. No civilian casualties. Two minor injuries. Tactical entry performed within expected response parameters.
All measurable indicators of a successful outcome.
Which means I should be focused on the debrief.
Instead, I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes watching Cynthia.
Not obviously.
At least I hope not obviously.
She’s standing near the back of the staging area where HRT has gathered, vest still on, helmet clipped to her belt, the posture of someone who hasn’t fully come down from operational focus yet. Agents move around her instinctively, the way people tend to shift around command presence without realizing they’re doing it.
A year.
It’s been almost exactly a year since we signed the divorce papers.
Statistically speaking, twelve months is enough time for most individuals to begin emotionally stabilizing after the dissolution of a marriage.
Apparently I am not most individuals.
Morgan leans against the SUV beside me, arms crossed.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m observing.”
He snorts.
“Uh huh.”
I ignore him.
Because the problem with seeing Cynthia again in person—after an entire year of successfully avoiding it—is that my brain immediately starts recalculating variables I thought were already resolved.
She looks the same.
Which is statistically inconvenient.
The same posture. Same controlled movements. Same expression that makes it very difficult to determine what she’s thinking.
My brain briefly flashes back to the morning she packed her things.
Three boxes.
One duffel bag.
The quiet efficiency of someone who had already decided the outcome.
Morgan follows my line of sight.
“Oh boy.”
I look at him.
“What?”
He nods behind me.
“Oh this is about to get messy.”
I turn.
And immediately feel something in my brain derail.
Agent Clarke is walking across the staging area carrying two coffees.
Two.
My eyes narrow slightly.
Clarke from Cyber Division. Slightly shorter than me. Larger glasses. Enthusiastic. Unreasonably cheerful about most things involving computers, encryption, or apparently… my ex-wife.
He’s walking directly toward Cynthia.
Which would be mildly irritating under normal circumstances.
Except he’s smiling.
Beaming, actually.
The kind of smile someone has when they’re bringing coffee to someone they’re excited to see.
My brain takes approximately three seconds to process the scenario.
Then it short circuits.
There is no statistical model for this.
Clarke stops a few feet from her, holding out one of the cups like he’s presenting a Nobel Prize.
Morgan makes a noise beside me.
“Oh hell.”
Garcia, standing behind us, whispers loudly:
“Is he bringing her coffee?”
JJ leans forward slightly.
“Oh my god.”
Morgan straightens up immediately, grinning.
“Oh this is rebound behavior.”
I look at him.
“What?”
He nods toward Clarke again.
“That boy thinks he’s about to slide into the rebound position.”
My brain refuses to process the sentence.
Rebound.
My ex-Wife.
Coffee.
Agent Clarke.
Several things begin happening simultaneously inside my head.
First.. statistical comparison.
Clarke is objectively more similar to me than most people. Similar profession category. Analytical mindset. Academic interests.
Second... a deeply unpleasant realization.
Cynthia has historically demonstrated a preference for people who engage her intellectually.
Which means—
No.
Absolutely not.
Morgan elbows me lightly.
“You good, pretty boy?”
I stare across the staging area as Clarke says something animated, gesturing slightly with the coffee cup.
I cannot hear the conversation.
Which is statistically very frustrating.
Garcia whispers again.
“Oh he’s flirting.”
Morgan grins.
“He is absolutely flirting.”
I feel something in my chest tighten in a way I am choosing not to examine too closely.
“…No.”
Morgan looks delighted.
“No?”
“No.”
He grins wider.
“Oh this is happening.”