"Thanks," I murmur, sliding into the seat.
Silence descends as soon as he takes his own chair. The kind of silence that makes you suddenly aware of every tiny sound—the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversations, the bloodrushing in your ears. I fiddle with my napkin, smoothing it over my lap three times before realizing what I'm doing.
"This place is nice," I say, wincing at how basic I sound.
"It is." He nods, eyes scanning the room in that careful way he has, like he's noting exits and threats.
More silence. I take a gulp of water. He studies the wine list.
"So," we both say simultaneously, then stop.
"You first," I offer.
"I was just going to ask what brought you to New York." He sets the menu down, giving me his full attention in a way that's almost uncomfortable. "You're not from here originally."
I tense slightly. "How'd you know that?"
Something flickers across his face. "Your accent. It slips through sometimes. Southern, but not deep South."
"Oh." My shoulders relax marginally. "Yeah, New Orleans. I came here for school, stayed for... everything else." I gesture vaguely at the city beyond the windows. "What about you? Are you a native New Yorker?"
"Born and raised." He says it with no particular pride. "Left for the Marines, came back after."
"Why the Marines?"
His mouth tightens slightly. "Needed discipline. Structure. Distance."
"From?"
"Family complications." He deflects smoothly, then diverts. "How'd you end up bartending?"
"Turns out journalism degrees don't pay the bills until you're actually, you know, a journalist." I shrug. "Plus, good tips, I'm good at it, and I know how to listen."
A hint of a smile touches his lips. "I've noticed."
"And you're a PI. Bet you hear more secrets than I do."
"Different kind of secrets." He takes a sip of water. "Yours are probably more interesting."
"Doubt it. Unless you find drunk finance bros crying about their exes fascinating." I break open a piece of bread. "What made you become a detective after the military?"
"Good at finding things. Better at finding people." He studies me over the rim of his glass. "What kind of journalism are you interested in?"
"Investigative. I want to expose things people try to hide." I meet his gaze steadily. "Things that shouldn't stay buried."
Something shifts in his expression—interest, maybe respect.
"What's your thesis about?" he asks.
"How powerful institutions protect predators." The words come out with more bite than I intend.
His eyes narrow slightly, like he's fitting puzzle pieces together. "Sounds personal."
"The best journalism usually is." I redirect before he can probe further. "So, ex-Marine turned private eye—that's pretty intense. Do you ever miss the structure of military life?"
"Sometimes. Not the early mornings." He almost smiles again. "Or the food."
"What's the weirdest case you've worked on?"
