The evening tide rolled into the harbor just as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep indigo and streaks of burnt orange. We had closed the shop shutters an hour earlier, locking the heavy brass deadbolt and feeding Titan his evening meal.

While Roman and Leo were wrapping up a discussion about gear ratios down in the basement vault, I sat at the kitchen table reviewing our quarterly supply orders and local business filings. Everything was in order—taxes paid, insurance renewed, community permits cleared. Our new identities, established through deep legal channels and clean documentation, were ironclad and completely unremarkable. We were simply Maya and Roman Vance, quiet proprietors of a coastal antique shop, blending seamlessly into the tapestry of small-town New England life.

Yet, even in the most secure harbors, the mind sometimes insists on checking the horizon for storms that have long since passed.

I stared out the kitchen window at the dark, gently lapping waters of the bay. For years, my life had been measured in extraction windows, encrypted dead drops, and the constant, gnawing awareness that someone was hunting us. Every footstep on a stairwell, every car idling too long outside a safehouse, had been a potential threat.

Now, the only footsteps outside belonged to teenagers walking home from the local diner or neighbors walking their golden retrievers along the boardwalk.

Roman walked quietly up behind me, placing a warm, comforting hand on my shoulder before setting a plate of toasted sourdough and homemade tomato soup on the table. He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down, his gray eyes studying my face with that quiet, intuitive perception that always caught me off guard.

"You're miles away tonight," Roman said softly, breaking the sourdough loaf in half and sliding a piece toward me.

I offered a small, self-deprecating smile, looking down at my hands. "Just... reflecting, I suppose. It’s hard to believe it’s been over a year since we walked away from Washington. Sometimes my brain still waits for the shoe to drop."

Roman reached across the table, wrapping his strong, calloused fingers over mine. His touch was an anchor, pulling me back from the phantom ghosts of our past.

"The shoe isn't going to drop, Maya," he said, his voice steady, low, and absolute. "We burned every bridge, scrubbed every server, and left behind a trail of fabricated digital debris that would take a superpower five years to untangle—if they even knew where to look. We are ghosts to them now. And here, we are real."

"I know," I whispered, squeezing his hand back. "It’s just... peace feels so unfamiliar sometimes that I keep bracing for impact."

"Then let me carry the bracing part for a while," Roman said, his lips curving into a gentle, reassuring smile. "Eat your soup. Tomorrow is Saturday, which means the morning farmers market, three antique auctions online, and zero international crises scheduled until further notice."

I laughed, a genuine, chest-deep sound that chased away the last lingering shadows in the room. "Zero crises? Are you sure? I think my calendar can handle at least one minor emergency involving Titan chasing a seagull."

"That," Roman grinned, leaning back in his chair, "is an emergency we are uniquely equipped to handle."