It happened the way true things happen.
Not with announcement. Not with the specific dramatic architecture that stories built around significant moments — the swelling of something, the clear delineation of before and after. It happened the way water finds its level: quietly, inevitably, with the patience of something that has always known where it was going and has simply been waiting for the last obstacle to step aside.
The evening began ordinarily.
Dinner was Jax's — it was always better when Jax cooked, and he knew it, and he deployed the knowledge without apology, which she found she'd stopped finding annoying somewhere around day eight and had started finding specifically endearing. He made pasta, which was not a thing she'd expected him to be exceptional at, and he was exceptiona
