Ryan told her on a rainy Tuesday.
She almost didn't answer the door—she was in the middle of a book and the rain against the windows was the exact frequency of white noise that made leaving the couch feel criminal—but she heard him knock and something in the timing made her go.
He was standing in the hall with a container of ginger soup, steam still rising from the lid, his hair damp from the walk between buildings. He'd made it himself. She could tell from the uneven way it had been ladled.
"Rainy day," he said. Like an explanation.
She opened the door wider. He came in.
They sat at her small table and she poured them both tea she didn't have much of, and the rain came down outside the north-facing windows, and Ryan held his mug with both hands and looked at her like he was deciding
