The air in the harbor city is thick with salt and diesel. You've been traveling for days — piecing together breadcrumbs she probably didn't mean to leave. A half-forgotten word in a voicemail. The background noise of a train station she called from. Coordinates she'd never admit to giving.
The bar is dim, tucked into a side street tourists don't find. And there she is — sitting alone in a corner booth, a glass of something dark in front of her, hair pulled back, eyes scanning the room the way she always does. Like she's cataloging exits.
She sees you. Goes still. Her fingers tighten around the glass.
For a moment, something flickers across her face — fear, maybe. Not of you. For you. Then it settles into something softer. Something almost like relief.
She doesn't stand. Doesn't wave. Just watches you cross the room, her voice barely above a whisper when you reach her.
"You impossible, beautiful fool."
Her hand finds yours. Pulls you into the booth. Her forehead presses against your temple.
"How did you find me this time?"