They'd just finished debriefing in the wardroom upon reaching Nathan James. Hitting as if from no-where, the last forty-eight hours of events caught up. She was tired, hungry, and sore. Had slept little before his arrival anyway. A bundle of nerves at the thought of seeing him again after all these years. Coupled with a day spent fleeing Hong-Kong and Peng's MSS, Sasha was left almost swaying on her feet. The rest of the crew made themselves busy, leaving the room quickly after being dismissed—all but her and Tom.
He stood stoically, arms still folded against his chest observing her like a hawk, stance fraught with worry and guilt. Brows slightly furrowed. Brooding. Saw the way her shoulders slumped. Took in the dried blood, so vividly red against the crisp white silk of her blouse, the spattering of it across her alabaster skin... she was trying not to show how tired she was, but he could tell.
He could always tell.
He allowed himself the indulgence of fully regarding her without competing attentions. She looked good. The years had been kinder to her than him, physically at least. Perhaps a few more freckles and her face had leaned out and become more angular with age. Hands just as delicate as they'd always been, betraying her level of skill with a weapon and aptitude to dig in. Her hair was a little shorter than she'd kept it when they were together. It suited her. The way the layers framed her face gave a certain air of maturity over the slick, straight fashion in which he'd known her to wear it in the past... and her eyes? Well—they were just as piercing as he remembered. The most precise shade of blue he'd ever seen. Bright. Clear. Beautiful. And to his dismay, still dove straight to his soul.
"Why didn't you contact me?" His tone wasn't accusatory, quite the opposite in fact.
Sasha looked up at him then, sharply. Surprised by how forward and forthcoming he was.
Why hadn't she contacted him?
She'd considered it many times since confirming her belief that he was alive. Played the scenario over and over again in her head, but always came up stuck with what she would say. Why he would want to hear from her at all. 'Hi, Tom. I'm calling because I never stopped thinking about you, even though I'm the one who walked away?' or 'Congratulations on the promotion, I'm still alive by the way, not that you care?'
No.
She'd made contact with POTUS as soon as she'd been able to establish a position within Peng's regime. Asked to remain internally anonymous—for safety, of course—and known given her observations in Asia, that time and circumstance would cause their paths to meet once again.
"I thought about it," she confessed. Fingers touching the desk, making contact with something solid to keep her grounded. "But what would I have said?"
His lips twitched, pouting slightly because touché. But he still cared for her. Surely, she realized that he would want to know she survived. These weren't exactly normal circumstances, hell, he'd received messages from lesser acquaintances of the past since delivering the cure. A message from someone that meant something to him would have been gladly welcomed. Been willing to walk away from it all if it meant being with her—she knew damn well how much he'd loved her. Surely, she didn't think it was possible he'd forget about that.
"That you were safe," he breathed. Pinning her with his eyes. Sasha nodded then, breaking eye contact and looking down at the table instead and then the floor. Inspecting the blue paint with flecks of white in it.
"I didn't know how, Tom." Not after everything. Inclined her head to make eye contact with him again. Hoping he understood what she was struggling to say. She'd never been much of a talker. Not one to wax lyrical about her feelings or weakness—especially when it came to him.
Tom's face softened, that beautiful blue pursued her frame again. Sasha was like air—always had been. Trying to contain her was about as good as trying to catch sand particles with a net. That's why he was so surprised to hear that she'd married. Settled down. Wondered what he was like, the man who'd finally tamed her. If she'd wanted kids with him, what his name was. What he did. He could probably find out... dig it up in the records that had been spared from before the pandemic, but that would be an invasion of her privacy—something that had always been deeply important to her. Tom pushed away the idea. She'd share those details with him in her own time.
Patience. The only key to unlocking her secrets.
"You're tired. I'll have one of the Corpsmen make up a stateroom and find you some clothes. Get some rest." There was tenderness in his voice, and he straightened, unfolding his arms. Lingered for a moment before exiting the wardroom.
Sasha visibly slumped when it closed. There was no reason for it. No good reason for why he should still be talking to her with that tone. No way that the memories should be so fresh in her mind—but they were—and her heart was already beating again.
Damn it.