PART THREE:PROXIMITY
725 Words
The café overlooked the terminal’s glass wall, all steel beams and artificial sunlight. Planes taxied in the distance like restless animals, always arriving, always leaving. Lucia liked places like this—temporary, anonymous, easy to escape.
Morgan ordered for both of them without asking. Black coffee for himself. Tea for her.
“You watched me on the plane,” she said once they were seated.
He didn’t deny it. “You watched me too.”
She wrapped her hands around the warm cup. “I was trying to figure you out.”
“And?” he asked.
“And I failed.”
That earned a small smile. “Good.”
They sat in a quiet pocket of awareness, the kind that settled when two people realized they were circling something real. Lucia felt it in the way her body leaned forward without instruction, in the way her pulse quickened whenever Morgan’s gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there half a second too long.
“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” he said.
“Which one?”
“What you do.”
She hesitated, then decided partial truth was safer than silence.
“I used to work in data analysis,” she said. “Risk assessment. Corporate, political, private.”
Morgan’s brow lifted slightly. “Used to?”
“I changed fields.”
“Because of him?” Morgan asked gently, nodding toward where the man had disappeared.
Lucia looked away, jaw tightening. “Because of what I learned.”
Morgan didn’t push. But something shifted in his eyes—respect, perhaps, or concern. He wasn’t afraid of complicated. That much was clear.
A woman approached their table then, her presence abrupt and unwelcome.
“Lucia?” she said brightly.
Lucia froze.
The woman was tall, impeccably dressed, hair pulled back with military precision. Her smile was professional, controlled.
“Do I know you?” Lucia asked.
“Camille,” the woman said. “We spoke last year. Zurich.”
Lucia’s grip tightened on her cup. “You said not to contact me again.”
Camille’s gaze slid to Morgan. Calculated. Curious.
“I wouldn’t,” Camille said, “if it weren’t urgent.”
Morgan stood. Not aggressively—protectively. “Is there something I can help with?”
Camille smiled at him. “I doubt it.”
Lucia pushed back her chair. “We’re leaving.”
Camille’s smile sharpened. “You don’t get to walk away anymore.”
The air between them crackled. Morgan stepped closer to Lucia now, close enough that she could feel the solid warmth of him at her back. It steadied her. Anchored her.
“Lucia,” Morgan murmured, low, for her alone. “Tell me what’s happening.”
She swallowed.
“People think I have something,” she said. “Something they want back.”
Camille tilted her head. “Think? Oh, Lucia. We know.”
Silence slammed down between them.
Lucia closed her eyes briefly, then opened them, resolve hardening. “Then you know I destroyed it.”
Camille’s smile vanished. “You lied.”
“I survived,” Lucia said. “There’s a difference.”
For a moment, it looked like Camille might say more—but then she straightened, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her sleeve.
“We’ll talk soon,” she said. “With or without your friend.”
She walked away.
Lucia exhaled shakily. Morgan’s hand came to her arm—not tentative now, not accidental. Firm. Grounding. Intimate in a way that made her chest tighten.
“Okay,” he said softly. “You’re going to explain.”
She looked up at him, at the concern she hadn’t earned but desperately needed.
“Yes,” she said. “But not here.”
“Where then?”
She hesitated only a second. “My hotel.”
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Not an invitation—not entirely—but charged all the same.
Morgan searched her face, then nodded. “Alright.”
They left the café together, steps matched, tension coiled tight and unmistakable. Lucia was acutely aware of every inch of space between them, of the way the night beyond the glass seemed to be closing in.
Whatever this was—whatever they were stepping into—it was no longer safe.
And neither of them wanted to turn back.
- Writer
