Chapter 2: Intellectual Foreplay
Rina clocked him before he spoke.
Not in the obvious way—he wasn’t hovering, wasn’t trying to edge into her space mid-conversation like a few of the others had—but he’d been there, just off to the side, watching without gawking. It was a subtle distinction, but she was good at those. Most people either stared too openly or avoided eye contact entirely, intimidated by their own curiosity. He’d done neither. He’d paid attention.
Which, frankly, already put him ahead of most of the room.
She was halfway through explaining—again, more patiently than she felt—why “what if they’re hiding it better” was not a policy framework when she noticed him step away from the column. There was a shift in his posture as he moved toward her, something intentional about it. Not cocky. Not tentative. Just… decided.
Interesting.
She finished her sentence, let the guy in front of her sputter through a half-formed rebuttal, and then disengaged cleanly, not unkind, just done. By the time she turned, he was there.
Up close, he was—she felt it before she fully processed it—attractive in that slightly unfair, disarming way that didn’t announce itself first. Dark hair, expressive face, something quick and alive in his eyes like he was always half a step ahead of whatever conversation he was in. He wasn’t trying to charm her. That was the first thing she noticed. Which, of course, made him more charming.
“Hi,” he said, and she braced, reflexively, for either flattery or a challenge.
“That was—really sharp.”
She almost laughed.
Not because it was particularly clever, but because it wasn’t lazy. He hadn’t defaulted to impressive, hadn’t tried to summarize or soften what she’d said. Sharp was… accurate. And a little dangerous, depending on who you asked.
“Thank you,” she said, letting her mouth curve slightly. “That’s a better word than most people are using.”
He tracked that immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’m guessing I missed some of the reviews.”
Dry. Not trying too hard. Good.
“You can imagine,” she said, folding her arms loosely, giving him just enough to see if he’d follow. “Apparently I’m naive, uninformed, and personally responsible for the fall of Western civilization.”
“Big day,” he said.
That one got her.
A real smile, quick but genuine, cutting through the residual irritation still buzzing under her skin from the debate. She felt it happen and didn’t stop it.
“Something like that.”
She let the silence sit for a second, watching him the way she watched everyone—taking inventory. The way he held himself. The way he was looking at her—not just at her face, but at her, like he was still parsing what he’d heard. No immediate agenda. No rush to prove something.
“Where do you land?” she asked, because she didn’t have the patience to play small talk when the room was still humming with it.
He didn’t flinch. Good sign.
“I think the case they’re making is… inconsistent,” he said, and she felt a flicker of interest sharpen behind her ribs. He wasn’t reaching for a position. He was reaching for an assessment.
“The rationale keeps shifting,” he continued. “First it’s WMDs, then it’s terrorism, then it’s democratization. And none of it feels fully substantiated.”
She studied him more closely now, the edges of her skepticism rearranging.
“Okay,” she said. “So what do you think the strongest argument for going in is?”
That was usually where people faltered—either doubling down on their position or retreating into something vague. He didn’t.
He paused. Thought. Actually thought.
“Deterrence, maybe,” he said slowly. “The idea that you can’t let regimes that have used chemical weapons before operate with any ambiguity about future capability.”
She tilted her head slightly, tracking it, waiting.
“That waiting could be more dangerous if they are hiding something,” he added.
“And?” she prompted, because she could hear the hinge in his voice, the place where he hadn’t landed yet.
“And I think that argument falls apart if the evidence doesn’t hold,” he said, and there it was—clear, clean, no hedging. “Because then you’re not deterring a real threat—you’re establishing a precedent that we act on suspicion alone.”
There it was again—that flicker. Not surprise, exactly. Recognition.
“Good,” she said, and she meant it. “Most people stop at the first part.”
She felt her posture shift without deciding to. Arms uncrossing, weight settling differently. Opening, just slightly.
He didn’t preen under it. He just… absorbed it.
“So you’re not pro-war,” she said, more to confirm the shape of him than to categorize him.
“I’m not convinced,” he replied.
She liked that answer more than she expected to.
Most people wanted certainty. They rushed toward it like it was proof of intelligence. Conviction as a performance. But uncertainty—real, considered uncertainty—that was harder. That required restraint.
“That’s a better place to be than most of this room,” she said, letting a trace of wryness slip in.
He tilted his head at her, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “You seem… convinced.”
She exhaled, something in her chest loosening now that she wasn’t actively fighting the room.
“I am,” she said. No apology. No softening. “Mostly because I’m listening to the people who are actually doing the inspections instead of the people who’ve already decided the outcome.”
He nodded, taking it in without pushing back, and she felt that same, quiet recalibration she’d had when he started talking. He wasn’t trying to win.
That was… rare.
“You always like being the only one in the room saying it?” he asked, and there was something in his tone—not mocking, not admiring exactly, but curious in a way that didn’t flatten her into a type.
She felt her mouth curve again, sharper this time.
“I’m not the only one,” she said. “I’m just one of the only ones willing to say it out loud.”
It came out cleaner than she felt. There was still a thread of anger under it—not at him, but at the room, at the way people had nodded along to arguments that didn’t hold up under even light pressure.
He smiled, and it reached his eyes this time.
“Fair.”
There was a shift then, subtle but unmistakable. The conversation unhooking from the room around them, settling into something more contained. More… theirs.
She watched him for another beat, letting herself look this time without filtering it through assessment.
He was good-looking. Objectively. But that wasn’t the interesting part.
It was the way his face moved when he thought, the way his eyes sharpened on a point and then softened when he let it go. The way he didn’t rush to fill silence. The way he’d let her speak without interrupting, which—God—shouldn’t have been notable, but here they were.
“So,” she said, almost casually now, though she knew she was choosing to extend this, “what’s your name?”
“Jon,” he said. “Favreau.”
The name tickled something at the edge of her memory—not fully formed, just a flicker—but she didn’t chase it yet.
“Caterina,” she said, offering it the same way she always did in rooms like this. Just a name. Nothing attached.
He didn’t call her on it.
Instead, he nodded once, meeting her gaze with that same quiet steadiness.
“Yeah,” he said, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I figured.”
She felt the flicker again—this time sharper. Amusement, yes, but also something like… appreciation. He hadn’t made it weird. Hadn’t listed off credentials or condolences or any of the other things people did when they recognized her.
“Did you,” she said lightly, testing.
“Eventually,” he admitted. “You don’t exactly blend in.”
She huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head.
“I try.”
“Sure you do.”
There it was. The ease.
She felt it settle in her body, unexpected and immediate. The tension from earlier—still there, but no longer dominant. Replaced, in part, by something lighter. Brighter.
“You’re not from Harvard,” she said, shifting slightly, angling toward him more fully now. It wasn’t a question. She’d already clocked it—the different cadence, the lack of that particular Harvard sheen.
“Holy Cross,” he said.
She nodded once. That fit.
“And you came to a Massachusetts College Democrats convention to… what? Be quietly skeptical in the corner?” she asked, one eyebrow lifting just slightly.
He smiled, not defensive. “Something like that.”
“Bold strategy,” she said dryly.
“Working out so far,” he replied, and there was a glint of something in it now. Not just intelligence. Play.
She felt her own response rise to meet it without effort.
“Debatable,” she said. “You did let half the room talk themselves into a war before saying anything.”
He laughed at that—real, unguarded—and something in her chest tightened in a way she didn’t immediately name.
“I was gathering data,” he said.
“Mm,” she hummed, unconvinced but entertained. “Very scientific of you.”
There was a beat, and she realized, distantly, that she was… enjoying herself.
Not in the abstract way of a good conversation. In a sharper, more specific way. The kind that made her aware of her own body again—of the way she was standing, the space between them, the way his attention felt when it settled on her.
She shifted her weight slightly, closing that space by a fraction without making it obvious.
“So what are you studying?” she asked, because she wanted to keep him talking. Because she was curious. Because—
Because.
“Political science,” he said. “English, too.”
She smiled at that, a little softer now.
“Of course you are.”
He tilted his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you talk like someone who reads more than policy briefs,” she said. “It’s refreshing.”
He took that in, something like quiet satisfaction flickering across his face.
“And you?” he asked. “Besides dismantling entire rooms of people before lunch.”
She let out a small breath, amused.
“Government,” she said. “History. International relations, eventually.”
“Eventually,” he echoed.
“Eventually,” she confirmed.
There was a thread there—future, trajectory, something larger than the room they were in—but she didn’t pull on it yet.
Instead, she held his gaze for a second longer than necessary, letting the moment stretch just slightly.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said, and the words slipped out before she could filter them.
His eyebrows lifted, intrigued. “No?”
“No,” she said, more certain now. “Most people who approach me after something like that either want to argue or agree with me very loudly.”
“And I did neither,” he said.
“Exactly.”
He smiled, slower this time.
“Give me time.”
She laughed—soft, surprised—and felt it settle somewhere deeper than the earlier ones.
Rina didn’t break eye contact when she laughed.
That was the first thing she noticed about herself—that she stayed there, in it, instead of doing what she usually did when something shifted from intellectual to something a little more… charged. Usually she’d deflect. Pivot. Reassert control of the frame.
She didn’t do that here.
“Careful,” she said, the word lighter than it had been a moment ago, but still carrying that edge she didn’t seem capable of fully turning off. “I might hold you to that.”
“I’m counting on it,” Jon said.
He didn’t rush it. Didn’t tack anything on to soften it or make it safer. Just let it land, clean.
She felt that—felt the way it settled somewhere just under her ribs, not uncomfortable, just… present.
Okay, she thought, recalibrating slightly. Not boring.
She shifted her weight, angling her body more fully toward him now without making a show of it, one hand coming up to rest loosely against her opposite elbow. Not closed off. Just… contained.
“You’re very calm for someone who just walked up to me after I picked a fight with half the room,” she said, studying him more openly now. “Most people lead with either admiration or a rebuttal.”
“I figured you’d already gotten enough of both,” he said.
Her mouth curved again, softer this time.
“That’s true,” she admitted.
A small group passed behind him, the room starting to loosen as people broke off into smaller conversations, but neither of them moved. The noise receded—not gone, just less relevant.
“So what were you doing, then?” she asked. “Gathering data,” she added, echoing his earlier line, her tone just dry enough to signal she hadn’t forgotten it.
He huffed a quiet laugh, glancing down for a second before looking back at her.
“I wanted to hear what people actually believed,” he said. “Not just what they thought they were supposed to say.”
She felt a flicker of recognition at that—sharp, immediate.
“Did you get an answer?” she asked.
“Sort of,” he said. “I think a lot of people are… uneasy. But they’re framing that unease as resolve because that’s what the moment seems to demand.”
She tilted her head, considering him, then nodded once.
“That’s exactly what it is,” she said. “They’ve decided that doubt looks weak, so they’re overcorrecting.”
Her tone had shifted again—not combative now, but precise, almost clinical. The part of her that dissected systems, patterns, motivations.
“And the administration is counting on that,” she continued. “They keep the language just ambiguous enough that people can project certainty onto it. ‘Weapons of mass destruction’ sounds definitive until you actually ask what that means in practice.”
Jon watched her as she spoke, and she felt it—not in a way that made her self-conscious, but in a way that sharpened her focus. He was following. Not waiting for his turn. Not scanning for an opening.
Following.
“And once people commit to the idea that action equals strength,” she said, “it becomes very hard to walk that back without feeling like you’ve failed some kind of test.”
He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful.
“Especially this soon after 9/11,” he said. “There’s this… pressure to prove we learned something from it.”
“Yes,” she said immediately, the word almost overlapping his. “Exactly.”
There was a flash of something in her chest—recognition again, but warmer this time. Not just that he understood the argument, but that he was tracking the same emotional undercurrent.
“And ‘learning something’ has been translated into ‘never hesitate again,’” she added, her mouth tightening slightly. “Which is not the same thing as making better decisions.”
Jon let out a small breath, something like agreement, but heavier.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s like hesitation itself became the enemy.”
“Right,” she said, a quick, almost sharp nod. “When actually, hesitation is what keeps you from making catastrophic mistakes.”
There was a beat.
Not empty. Just… full.
She became aware, distantly, of the way they were standing—closer now than when he’d first approached, though neither of them had made a conscious move to close the distance. The space between them felt… intentional.
Grounded.
“So,” she said, and there was a shift in her tone now, something a little more curious than analytical, “you grew up around this?”
He blinked slightly. “Around what?”
“This,” she said, gesturing lightly—not just the room, but the conversation, the politics, the way he spoke about it. “You don’t sound like someone who just started thinking about this six months ago.”
He smiled faintly at that, one shoulder lifting in a small shrug.
“My parents are pretty engaged,” he said. “And… Massachusetts.”
She huffed a soft laugh.
“Fair.”
He tilted his head at her, studying her now in a way that felt more direct, less filtered through the conversation.
“And you?” he asked. “I mean—I know the public version, but—” He stopped himself, recalibrating mid-sentence. “You don’t talk like someone who just reads headlines.”
She felt the flicker again—this time more complicated.
Because there it was. The edge of recognition. Not intrusive, not clumsy, but present.
She could have deflected. She almost did.
Instead, she held his gaze.
“I don’t,” she said simply.
A beat.
“My grandfather talks about this stuff like it’s oxygen,” she added, and there was a trace of something softer in her voice now, something rooted. “And my mom… she’s very good at making sure I understand the difference between what people say and what they mean.”
Jon nodded, taking that in without pushing further.
“That tracks,” he said.
She studied him for a second, then asked, lightly but not casually, “How much of the ‘public version’ do you know?”
He met her gaze, and she saw the calculation there—not what to say, but how to say it.
“Enough,” he said. “Olympics. TIME cover. Your sister.”
He didn’t say Eleanor’s name.
She noticed that.
Felt it.
And something in her chest loosened, just slightly.
“Yeah,” she said, and that was all she gave him.
He didn’t press.
Another point in his favor.
“Does it get exhausting?” he asked after a moment, and his tone had shifted too—quieter, more careful, but not pitying.
She let out a small breath, glancing away for the first time since he’d walked up, her eyes catching briefly on a group across the room before returning to him.
“Sometimes,” she said. “Mostly when people think they understand me because they’ve seen me on television.”
He winced, just slightly. “Yeah.”
She watched that, the way he reacted—not defensive, not eager to distance himself, just… aware.
“But,” she added, the corner of her mouth lifting again, “it also means I get to walk into rooms like this and not have anyone tell me to sit down.”
That got him.
A quick laugh, genuine.
“Fair trade,” he said.
“Sometimes,” she echoed.
There was another shift then, subtle but unmistakable. The conversation loosening its grip on politics, opening into something else. Not abandoning it—just… expanding.
Jon shifted his stance slightly, mirroring her without realizing it, and she caught that too. The unconscious adjustments. The way people aligned when they were engaged.
“So what do you do when you’re not dismantling bad arguments?” he asked.
She arched an eyebrow. “That’s most of my day, actually.”
“I believe that,” he said, smiling.
She let the beat stretch, then said, “I skate.”
He nodded, like he already knew that but was letting her define it on her own terms.
“Do you miss it?” he asked.
The question landed differently than she expected.
Not because it was invasive—but because it was… direct.
She considered it for a second, longer than she had with any of the earlier questions.
“Sometimes,” she said finally. “Not the competing. But the… clarity of it.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Clarity?”
“You either land it or you don’t,” she said. “There’s no narrative to hide behind. No interpretation. It’s just—did you do the thing or not.”
She held his gaze as she said it, and she could see him turning it over, mapping it onto the conversation they’d just had.
“That sounds nice,” he said quietly.
“It is,” she said. “Politics is… less forgiving.”
“That’s one way to put it,” he replied.
She smiled at that, smaller now, more private.
“And you?” she asked. “What do you do when you’re not… gathering data in corners?”
He laughed again, softer this time.
“Write,” he said. “Mostly.”
Her interest sharpened immediately.
“What kind of writing?”
“Policy stuff,” he said. “Speeches, sometimes. Essays. I like trying to figure out how to say things in a way that actually lands.”
She felt something click into place.
“Ah,” she said. “So you’re one of the people responsible for all the phrases I hate.”
He grinned. “Not yet.”
“Give it time,” she echoed, and there was a glint in her eye now.
“I will,” he said.
There was a beat—longer this time, but not uncomfortable. Just… full.
She became aware again of the space between them. Of the way it had narrowed. Of the fact that she hadn’t stepped back.
That he hadn’t either.
Interesting.
“So,” she said, and now there was something unmistakably lighter in her tone, something edging toward playful, “are you always this reasonable, or is this a special occasion?”
He tilted his head, considering.
“Special occasion,” he said. “I’m trying to impress you.”
She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.
“You’re doing it very subtly,” she said.
“I figured anything more obvious would backfire,” he replied.
“Correct,” she said immediately, and the ease between them settled into something warmer, more fluid.
She held his gaze for another second, then two, letting the moment stretch just slightly further than necessary.
“You’re good,” she said, quieter now, more deliberate. “At this.”
He didn’t play dumb.
“At talking to you?” he asked.
She nodded once.
“Yes.”
He smiled—slower this time, something a little more grounded in it.
“I had a good opening,” he said.
She huffed a soft laugh, her eyes flicking briefly to his mouth and back up again before she could stop herself.
“Yeah,” she said. “You did.”
And there it was.
Not just interest. Not just curiosity.
A spark.
Clear. Mutual. Undeniable.
Rina felt it settle into place, steady and bright, and didn’t look away.
Jon didn’t want to break the moment.
That was the first, immediate instinct—the awareness that whatever this was, this precise balance they’d found between sharp and easy and something just beginning to tip into charged, it was delicate. Not fragile, exactly. Just… specific. Hard to replicate if you fumbled it.
But he also knew better than to let it drift.
There was a rhythm to this kind of thing. You either stepped into it or you watched it pass you by.
“So,” he said, and he felt the shift in himself as he said it—not retreating from the conversation, but redirecting it, just enough. “Are you going to the mixer tonight?”
She didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” Rina said, and there was something immediate in it—not performative, not coy. Just a clean answer, followed by the faintest lift of her eyebrow. “Are you?”
“Yeah,” Jon said, and now there was a hint of something else threading into his tone. Not nerves. Not quite. Anticipation, maybe. “I am.”
A beat.
She studied him for a second, like she was deciding something, and then her mouth curved—slow, deliberate.
“Good,” she said.
It landed.
Not flirtatious in the obvious sense. Not soft. But there was something unmistakable in it now—an awareness, a shared understanding that whatever this was didn’t end in this ballroom.
Jon felt it settle in his chest, steady and warm.
“Good,” he echoed, and he didn’t look away when he said it.
Her eyes flicked over his face again, quick but not careless, and he had the distinct sense she was taking stock in a different way now—not just what do you think, but who are you when you’re not answering questions.
“What does ‘mixer’ mean in this context?” she asked, her tone dry again, but lighter now, threaded with something playful. “Because I have a feeling we might be operating with different expectations.”
Jon huffed a quiet laugh.
“Probably,” he said. “I think it’s mostly bad music, warm beer, and people trying to sound more interesting than they are.”
“Mm,” she hummed, like that confirmed something. “So exactly like this, but louder.”
“Exactly like this, but louder,” he agreed.
She tilted her head, considering him.
“And you’re voluntarily attending,” she said.
“I have my reasons,” he replied.
Her eyes sharpened, just slightly. “Do you?”
“Yeah,” he said, and now he let it sit there for half a second before adding, “I’m hoping the conversation improves.”
That got her.
A quick, quiet laugh, her head dipping for a second before she looked back up at him, and this time the smile lingered.
“Careful,” she said. “That sounds like an expectation.”
“I’m willing to take that risk,” he said.
She held his gaze, and something in the air between them shifted again—less tentative now, more certain.
“You should,” she said softly.
Another beat. Closer now, though neither of them had moved.
“What about you?” he asked. “Are you planning on… dismantling anyone else tonight?”
She smiled, sharper again, but there was warmth under it now.
“Only if they ask for it,” she said.
“Generous,” he replied.
“I try,” she said, echoing herself from earlier, and the shared memory of it sat between them like a small, private joke.
Jon let the silence stretch for a second longer, then nodded once, like he’d made a decision.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”
“You will,” she said.
Not maybe. Not if.
Jon felt that land too.
He took a step back—not retreating, just giving the moment a clean edge instead of letting it blur.
“Caterina,” he said, her name settling more naturally now.
“Jon,” she returned, and there was something in the way she said it—like she’d already filed it somewhere.
He turned before he could overthink it, before he could linger long enough to dilute what had just happened, and made his way back through the room.
He didn’t look back. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he didn’t need to.
*******
The hotel room door slammed shut behind him with more force than necessary.
Josh looked up from the bed, where he’d been sprawled half-on, half-off, flipping through a channel guide like he had nowhere better to be.
“Well?” he said immediately, grinning. “You disappear for half an hour and come back looking like that—I assume you didn’t just exchange pleasantries.”
Jon dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once across the room like he had too much energy and nowhere to put it.
“Fuck me,” he said, half under his breath, then louder, “Josh.”
Josh sat up, fully engaged now. “Oh, this is good.”
Jon let out a short, incredulous laugh, stopping near the foot of the other bed.
“She’s—” He cut himself off, shaking his head like the words weren’t lining up fast enough. “She’s insane.”
Josh blinked. “In a good way?”
“In a very good way,” Jon said immediately, already moving again, pacing back the other direction. “Like—Jesus. She’s smarter than everyone in that room by a mile, and she knows it, but she’s not—” He paused, searching. “She’s not obnoxious about it. She just… doesn’t tolerate bullshit.”
Josh snorted. “Yeah, that tracks.”
“And she listens,” Jon went on, turning back toward him. “Like actually listens. Not just waiting for her turn to talk. And then when she does talk, it’s just—clean. There’s no filler. No hedging. She just—” He snapped his fingers once. “—cuts straight through it.”
Josh raised his eyebrows, impressed despite himself. “Okay.”
“And she’s funny,” Jon added, almost as an afterthought, but it came out more emphatic than he meant it to. “Like—dry as hell, but in a way where you have to be paying attention or you’ll miss it.”
“Dangerous,” Josh said.
“Very,” Jon agreed.
He stopped pacing, finally, dropping down onto the edge of the other bed, leaning forward with his forearms braced on his thighs.
“And she’s…” He exhaled, a laugh slipping out again, softer this time. “She’s so beautiful, man. Like—it’s actually distracting. But not in a way where she’s trying to be. It’s just—there.”
Josh grinned, satisfied. “There it is.”
Jon shook his head, smiling despite himself.
“No, but seriously,” he said, looking up now, something more grounded settling into his voice. “It’s not just that. It’s—everything. The way she thinks. The way she talks. The way she looks at you like she’s already halfway through figuring you out.”
Josh leaned back against the headboard, watching him with open amusement. “And how’d you do under interrogation?”
Jon huffed a quiet laugh. “Held my own.”
“‘Held my own,’” Josh repeated, skeptical.
“I did,” Jon said, more certain now. “She pushed, but—” He shrugged slightly. “It wasn’t adversarial. It was… I don’t know. Like she was actually trying to see how I think.”
Josh nodded slowly. “And?”
“And I think I passed,” Jon said, and there was a flicker of something like satisfaction in it. “She said most people stop halfway through their own arguments. I didn’t.”
Josh pointed at him. “There we go.”
Jon smiled, but it faded into something a little more serious, more focused.
“She’s going to the mixer tonight,” he said.
Josh’s grin widened. “Of course she is.”
“And she said—” Jon paused, replaying it, the exact tone, the way she’d said it. “She said ‘good’ when I told her I’d be there.”
Josh let out a low whistle. “Oh, you’re in.”
Jon shook his head immediately, but he was smiling again, that same incredulous edge still there.
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “But—”
“But?” Josh prompted.
Jon leaned back slightly, bracing his hands behind him on the mattress, staring at the ceiling for a second before looking back over.
“But I’m very into her,” he said, plain and unfiltered. “Like—immediately. Which is… not ideal.”
Josh laughed. “Yeah, no, that’s a problem.”
“I’m serious,” Jon said, though there was humor in it. “She’s—” He shook his head again, softer this time. “She’s incredible. On every level. It’s kind of ridiculous.”
Josh studied him for a second, then smirked.
“So what’s the plan?”
Jon exhaled, a slow, steady breath, then sat forward again, something more deliberate settling into his posture.
“I’m going to show up,” he said. “I’m going to talk to her again.”
“Solid start,” Josh said.
“And I’m not going to overthink it,” Jon added, though even as he said it, he knew that was aspirational at best.
Josh laughed. “Good luck with that.”
Jon smiled, but his gaze drifted for a second, unfocused—not on the room, not on Josh, but somewhere else entirely.
Back to her.
The way she’d said good.
The way she’d looked at him when she said it.
He felt it again, that same steady pull, sharper now because it had somewhere to go.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Josh. “Good luck with that.”