Barcelona did something dangerous to Anton. Or maybe it did something dangerous to me. I kept trying to tell myself it was the city. The light. The sea air. The fact that everything there felt temporarily removed from consequence, as if the world we actually belonged to had been placed on mute while we moved through a brighter version of it. But the truth was less poetic and far more inconvenient. Anton was different there. Not softer, exactly. I didn’t think Anton knew how to be soft in any permanent sense. But he was looser at the edges. More human in the pauses. More willing to let silence sit between us without filling it with control. He smiled more, and not the cold, private version I had seen in hallways or across conference tables. Real smiles. Brief and dangerous and all the m

