The thing about being in a real relationship after a fake one was that you kept waiting for the catch.
Not consciously — I wasn't sitting around expecting things to go wrong. But somewhere in the back of my mind there was a quiet voice that had spent nineteen years learning that good things came with conditions, and it hadn't fully accepted that this one might not.
Zane noticed before I said anything. He always did.
It was a Tuesday — library day, our day — and we'd been sitting together for about an hour when he put his pen down and looked at me.
"What's going on in there?" he said.
"Enzyme kinetics."
"Ava."
I looked up.
He was watching me with that particular patience of his — the kind that didn't pressure, just waited.
"I'm fine," I said.
"You've been fine for three days." He
