The bar smells like citrus peel and something medicinal trying to pass as expensive.

Claire’s elbow is hooked over the counter, glass sweating under her fingers. She’s halfway through a story about Sherry—something about a lab tech flirting with her like he didn’t know she could snap his wrist in two—and Leon’s laughing, actually laughing, head tipped back just enough to show the line of his throat.

It’s easy. Too easy.

Like none of it happened. Like Alcatraz wasn’t a nightmare humming under their skin. Like they aren’t both waiting for someone in a hazmat suit to come tap them on the shoulder and say you missed something.

Claire nudges his boot with hers under the bar.

“Don’t laugh like that,” she says, smiling into her drink. “You’re gonna encourage her.”

“Too late,” Leon says. “She gets that from you.”

“Oh, please.”

“Reckless. Stubborn. Scary when pissed—”

She turns her head, slow, gives him a look. “Careful.”

He grins. There’s a bruise pulling at the corner of his mouth when he does. It shouldn’t be attractive. It is.

God, it is.

For a second, it’s just that—boots touching, shoulders almost brushing, the quiet hum of something that never quite left.

Then—

“Why didn’t we ever get together?”

It lands soft. Almost casual.

Like he didn’t just take a crowbar to something buried.

Claire doesn’t even blink at first. Just sets her glass down with a small, deliberate clink. The ice shifts. Settles.

“…Oh, come on, Leon.”

Her voice changes. Not louder. Just sharper. Edged.

“Don’t start with that shit again.”

He doesn’t look away.

“What shit.”

She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. Just air and teeth.

“This—” she gestures vaguely between them, like she can physically swat the question out of existence. “This thing you do. Every couple of years you come back from the dead, or a mission, or whatever the hell you call your life, and suddenly you wanna—what—rewrite history?”

“I’m asking a question.”

“No, you’re not.” She turns on the stool, fully facing him now. “You’re poking at something you already decided the answer to.”

His jaw tightens. “And what’s that?”

“That we almost—” she stops herself, shakes her head like it pisses her off that the words even exist. “That we should have. That we missed something.”

“Didn’t we?”

There it is.

God.

Claire exhales hard through her nose. Looks away. The mirror behind the bar throws them back at her—him all angles and shadows, her wound up tight like a wire.

“Leon,” she says, quieter now, but worse for it, “you left.”

“I got assigned.”

“Yeah.” She nods. Fast. “You always do.”

“That’s not fair.”

She turns back, eyes flashing. “No? You wanna talk about fair? Let’s talk about how many times I’ve found out you were in the same city from someone else. Or how you disappear for months and come back acting like we’re just supposed to—pick up where we left off?”

His voice drops. “I never asked you to wait.”

“No,” she snaps, leaning in just enough that the space between them tightens, charged. “You didn’t ask me for anything. That’s kind of the problem.”

Leon’s hand is on the bar, fingers spread. She notices stupid things—scrapes across his knuckles, the way his sleeve is pushed up just enough to show a faint scar she doesn’t remember.

Or maybe she does.

“Claire—”

“Don’t,” she cuts in, softer now, but it hits harder. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what.”

“Like you’re about to make it mean something.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but it dies halfway out. “It already does.”

Her stomach flips. Fucking annoying.

She shakes her head, but she doesn’t move away. Not really. Their knees are still brushing. His presence is still—everywhere.

“See, this is what I mean,” she mutters. “You get like this. Say shit like that. And for a second I—”

She cuts herself off.

Too late.

“For a second you what,” he presses.

Her eyes flick back to his. Dangerous.

“For a second I forget,” she says. “That you’re really good at leaving.”

That one lands.

He flinches. Barely. But she sees it.

Good.

“Claire, I—”

“No.” She leans back now, finally putting space between them, grabbing her glass again like it’s armor. “You don’t get to ‘I—’ your way out of this. Not tonight.”

“Why tonight?”

She laughs again, softer, but it cracks this time.

“Because your flight’s in the morning,” she says. “Because I go back to my life on Monday. Because this—” her hand flicks between them again, smaller this time, more tired than angry “—this only ever exists in these little windows where it’s convenient for you to wonder about it.”

“That’s not—”

“It is.”

They stare at each other.

Too long.

Too close, even with the space.

Something shifts.

His voice drops, rougher now. “You think it’s easy for me?”

“I don’t,” she says, flat.

Then—because she can’t help herself—

“You’re not exactly a spa day to think about, Leon.”

A beat.

Just long enough for it to land.

His eyes narrow, a tired exhale slipping out of him like he’s already over it and still very much in it.

“Yeah?” he mutters. “That why you keep ending up in rooms alone with me?”

Claire’s mouth twitches.

“Bad judgment,” she shoots back. “Recurring issue.”

He huffs, dragging a hand down his face, half a laugh, half Jesus Christ, here we go again.

“Bullshit.”

He says it like he’s heard every version of her pretending this doesn’t get to her and he’s officially done entertaining it.

“Watch it.”

“No,” he says, leaning in now, closing the distance she just made like it was never there. “You don’t get to pretend this is one-sided. Not after everything—”

“Everything?” she echoes, heat rising again, but it’s different now. “What everything, Leon? The almosts? The what-ifs? The timing’s never right speeches?”

“You felt it.”

Her breath catches.

God, she hates that he said it like that.

Like a fact. Not a question.

“Don’t—”

“You did,” he pushes, quieter now, eyes locked on hers. “Don’t lie to me about that.”

Her hand tightens around the glass. Ice clinks, betraying her.

For a second—just a second—she thinks about it. About saying it. About ripping it open and letting it bleed all over this stupid fucking bar.

Instead—

She smiles.

Sharp. Mean. A little bit shaky.

“Yeah,” she says. “I did.”

His shoulders shift. Like he didn’t expect her to give it to him that easily.

“And then I grew up.”

That one hits where it’s supposed to. But he doesn’t back off.

Leon’s hand moves—slow, deliberate—resting on the edge of the bar just close enough to hers that their fingers almost touch.

“Funny,” he murmurs. “I think this is the most grown-up we’ve ever been about it.”

Claire looks down at the space between their hands.

Doesn’t move hers.

“Is it,” she says softly, “or are we just running out of time?”

He inhales.

She feels it.

“Maybe I’m just tired of missing it.”

Her throat goes dry.

She swallows it down.

“Maybe,” she says, meeting his eyes again, steady even if she doesn’t feel it, “you’re just finally realizing you can’t have everything you didn’t choose.”

That does it.

Something flashes across his face—frustration, heat, something sharper, deeper—

“Who said I didn’t choose,” he says.

Claire’s heart stutters.

“Leon—”

“Who said I wouldn’t,” he corrects, quieter now.

And there it is.

Not the question.

The offer.

It hangs between them.

Claire’s fingers twitch against the bar.

She doesn’t take his hand.

But she doesn’t pull away either.

“…Your flight’s in the morning,” she says again, like that settles anything.

“Yeah.”

“And I’ve got work.”

“I know.”

Neither of them move.

The bartender passes. Someone laughs at the other end of the bar. The world keeps going like this isn’t happening.

Claire exhales, slow, controlled.

“Then maybe,” she says, voice low now, something else threading through the anger—something warmer, riskier, “you should stop asking questions you don’t have time to answer.”

Leon’s gaze drops to her mouth for a fraction of a second.

Back to her eyes.

“Or,” he says, just as low, “maybe we finally stop pretending we need time.”

Claire’s pulse kicks.

She leans in before she can stop herself. Just enough that their foreheads almost—

Almost—

“Seriously Leon, Don’t,” she whispers. Not a warning. Not really.

More like—

Be sure.

His voice is rough when he answers. “Then tell me to leave it alone.”

She could.

She should.

Instead—

Claire’s lips brush the corner of his, not quite a kiss—just enough to dare him.

“Ask better questions,” she murmurs.

Leon pauses.

A beat.

Then—

Two fingers up. Subtle.

The bartender’s already moving.

“Check” Leon says.

Claire stares at him.

“…You’re kidding.”

“You said better questions.”

“Smooth,” she mutters, picking at the condensation ring her glass left behind.

“You want hesitation?” he shoots back, already pulling his card out. “I can hesitate. I’m great at it.”

“That’s actually your defining trait,” she says sweetly. “Right after ‘chronic disappearance.’”

“Hm, funny,” he murmurs, glancing at her as he signs. “You’re still coming upstairs with me.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “Am I?”

He slides the receipt back. Doesn’t break eye contact.