Page 32 of Borrowed Pain
"Distracting me."
Miles laughed. "Fair enough. You know any decent places around here?"
We walked north on Corson Ave, Georgetown's industrial bones visible beneath its growing skin of galleries and studios. Freight yards stretched to our right, shipping containers stacked like building blocks against the metallic sky.
Along the way, Miles pointed out a mural that transformed the side of a machine shop. His voice cut through the noise crowding my thoughts.
A Boeing transport rumbled overhead, casting shadows across the cracked pavement. Miles tilted his head back to watch it pass, throat exposed, utterly unconscious of how the gesture stole the air from my lungs.
This was the problem with wanting someone—you noticed every distracting detail. How a gentle breeze ruffled his hair or his mouth moved when he spoke, like he was tasting each word before releasing it.
"You picked an interesting neighborhood," Miles continued as we turned onto 12th Ave S. "Most people leaving federal service head for suburbs and safety. Houses with lawns, maybe a dog."
"Most people don't spend their nights investigating murder conspiracies."
"Point taken." Miles navigated around a cluster of brewery patrons spilling onto the sidewalk. "Though you could probably afford better than a converted warehouse on whatever savings you had."
"The Bureau doesn't offer pensions to agents who quit before ten years." It was more detail than I intended to share. "Everything I have came from selling my D.C. life and gambling it on podcast revenue."
Miles stopped walking. "You gave up your pension?"
"I gave up everything."
"For what?"
For Aiyana. For Lucia. For the possibility that some truths are worth more than financial security.
"For the chance to speak without asking permission first."
We resumed walking, passing Biagio's hand-painted window sign. The converted auto shop was industrial bones warmed by decoration, fairy lights where hydraulic lifts once stood.
"How about here?" Miles asked.
I automatically scanned the details: front door, emergency exit visible through the windows, clear sightlines to the street. The hostess kept glancing toward the kitchen—nervous habit or checking with someone? The businessman at table six had positioned himself to watch the entrance, and his newspaper hadn't turned a page since we entered.
Miles watched my face. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Threat assessment over linguine. We're having lunch, not infiltrating a hostile facility."
"Same principles apply." I pulled the door open for him. "Situational awareness keeps people alive."
"And paranoia stops them from living."
Miles pushed open the door, releasing garlic-scented air and the murmur of conversations in multiple languages. The hostess looked up from a reservation book held together with duct tape.
"Two?" she asked, already reaching for menus.
"Somewhere quiet if you have it," Miles said.
She led us past couples sharing wine and families debating antipasti selections, toward a table against the back wall. Perfect positioning—clear view of all entrances and emergency exit within ten steps.
"This work?" she asked.
Miles cut me off. "Perfect."
She handed us menus and disappeared. Miles settled into his chair and opened his menu.
