I feel a quiet sense of completion as I close the book and set it down on the coffee table between Owen and I.
The move is perhaps a touch more pointed than necessary.
Owen, stretched across the opposite sofa with one ankle resting on his knee, glances up from the book in his own hands and lifts a brow.
"Well," he says, slowly closing it over one finger. "I am impressed."
"It’s just a book," I say with a sigh.
"No," he says, sitting up properly now. "It was you willingly engaging with something outside your comfort zone and not immediately dismissing it because there were no maps, murders, combat or political structures involved."
I snort softly.
"It is still just a book."
"Mm." He studies me over the edge of his mug. "And?"
I look at the copy of Pride and Prejudice where it sits
