The sun had begun its slow, brilliant descent over the Grand Harbour of Valletta, painting the ancient limestone fortresses in shades of liquid amber and soft violet. The Mediterranean sea breeze swept up from the water, cooling the terrace and rustling the edges of the unencrypted hard drives stacked neatly at the corner of the teak table.
Ethan leaned back in his chair, his long legs stretched out before him, his fingers lazily twirling his silver-rimmed glasses by the arm. The sharp, perpetual tension that had lived in his shoulders since the early days of our Seattle escape was entirely gone.
"Tunde sent a secondary file while you were reviewing the European grants," Ethan said, his voice dropping into that relaxed, gravelly register that always settled the remaining noise in my mind
