CHAPTER 26: THE DINNER
The restaurant was the same. Red-checked tablecloths, old waiters, the smell of garlic and fresh bread that hit you when you walked through the door.
Our table in the corner. Gerri already seated. Wine already poured.
I slid into the chair across from her. "You started without me."
"You're late."
"Three minutes."
"Still late." But she was smiling.
The waiter appeared. We ordered without looking at menus—we'd been here enough times to know what we wanted. He disappeared.
We drank. Ate bread. Talked about nothing.
The weather. The absurdity of a new corporate policy about email signatures. A terrible movie Gerri had watched on a flight. Normal conversation. Deliberately normal.
Neither of us mentioned Pennsylvania. The siege. The fear. The shaking.
We were avoiding it. Both of us knew it. Neither of us cared.
The food arrived. We ate. Still talking about nothing important. Books. Places we'd never traveled to but wanted to. The way the subway always smelled like hot garbage in summer.
Small talk. The kind of conversation people have when they're comfortable enough to not need substance.
I realized halfway through the pasta: this is what normal feels like.
Not corporate warfare. Not family dysfunction. Not survival mode.
Just two people sharing a meal. Enjoying each other's company. No agenda. No strategy.
When was the last time I'd had that? In either life?
Gerri set down her fork. Looked at me.
"Okay," she said. "We've successfully avoided the topic for forty-five minutes. New record."
"We could keep going."
"We could. But I actually want to know." Her voice softened. "What was it like? Not the public story. The real version."
I set down my own fork. Considered deflecting.
Decided not to.
"Terrifying," I said quietly. "Three guns pointed at various people. Everyone screaming. This... certainty that someone was going to get shot."
She waited. Didn't interrupt.
"And I couldn't freeze," I continued. "Roman's body wanted to. Has all this childhood trauma—" I stopped. Careful. "But I couldn't let it. So I just... pushed through. Stayed functional. Did what needed doing."
"The negotiations."
"Yeah. Listening, mostly. They weren't crazy. Just desperate. And Dennis..." I thought about his daughter. The opioid epidemic. The Waystar pharmaceutical subsidiary. "Dennis had lost someone. His daughter. To pills our company sold. That grief... it was real. Dangerous. But real."
"You understood him."
"I tried to."
Gerri reached across the table. Took my hand. "And after?"
"After I fell apart." I didn't pull my hand back. "In the hospital. Alone. All the fear I'd been holding just... crashed through. I shook for an hour. Couldn't stop it."
"That's normal."
"It didn't feel normal. It felt like breaking."
"It was processing. Your body releasing what you couldn't release during the crisis." She squeezed my hand. "You're allowed to break sometimes, Roman. It doesn't make you weak."
I looked at our hands. Her grip was firm. Steady. Anchoring.
"I don't know how to do that," I said. "Break. I've spent seven weeks—" I stopped. Seven weeks since the transmigration. "I've spent so long staying functional that I don't know how to not be."
"Then learn." She smiled slightly. "I'll help."
We sat like that for a moment. Hands linked across the table. The restaurant noise continuing around us. Our own small bubble of quiet.
Finally, she released my hand. "Dessert?"
"Always."
We ordered the chocolate soufflé again. Split it. The absurd richness grounding us back in the present.
When we finished, paid, and walked outside, light rain had started. Not heavy. Just a mist that made the streetlights blur.
Neither of us moved toward calling cars.
We stood on the sidewalk. The city moving around us. Taxis splashing past. People hurrying under umbrellas.
We weren't hurrying.
Gerri turned to look at me. Rain caught in her hair. Made her look younger somehow. More vulnerable.
"Roman—"
"I know."
"You don't know what I was going to say."
"I know it's the same thing I'm thinking."
She stepped closer. "And what are you thinking?"
"That this is a terrible idea. That we work together. That you're twenty years older than me. That the power dynamics are impossible. That if anyone finds out, both our careers are complicated." I paused. "And that I don't care."
"We should care."
"I know."
"This could destroy everything we've built."
"I know."
"Logan would lose his mind."
"Probably."
She laughed. Quiet. Almost sad. "So why aren't we walking away?"
"Because I don't want to."
"Me neither."
The kiss was inevitable.
She initiated. Stepped forward, hand on my jacket, pulled me down those few inches.
I responded. Hand in her hair. The rain misting around us.
Brief. Then we pulled back. Stared at each other.
"Is this a mistake?" she asked.
"Probably," I said.
Neither of us walked away.
"We'd have to be careful," she said. "Secret. No one can know."
"I understand."
"The age difference—"
"I don't care about that."
"The professional complication—"
"I don't care about that either."
"Roman." She touched my face. "I'm serious. If this happens, we have to be smart. No public displays. No slipping. Absolute discretion."
"I can do that."
"Can you? You're impulsive. Emotional."
"I'm also good at secrets." I met her eyes. "I've kept bigger ones."
She studied my face. Looking for doubt. Uncertainty. Anything that would give her an excuse to step back.
I gave her nothing.
"Okay," she said finally. "But we take this slow. Figure out what it is before we risk everything for it."
"Okay."
"And if it gets complicated—if it threatens either of our positions—"
"We reevaluate. I get it."
She kissed me again. Longer this time. The rain picking up slightly. Neither of us caring.
When we pulled apart, she was smiling. "We're idiots."
"Probably."
"Separate cars home."
"Obviously."
"Call me tomorrow. After Logan."
"Will do."
She flagged a taxi. Got in. The car pulled away into Manhattan traffic.
I stood there for another minute. Rain soaking through my jacket. Not caring.
Then I called my own car. Rode back to my apartment. Stood at my window looking out at the city.
Something real in this unreal situation.
Something worth protecting.
The wounded king, finding something worth fighting for beyond survival.
I went to sleep smiling.
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