Saturday arrived cold and clear.
The kind of New York winter morning that had no ambiguity about it — sharp air, bright sky, the city stripped of its usual softness and showing its actual bones. Aria dressed without overthinking it. Jeans. A cream sweater her father had given her three Christmases ago. Boots. Her good coat.
Simple. Herself.
Ethan texted at nine. Ready when you are. No rush.
She texted back: Twenty minutes.
He replied with a Brooklyn address she didn't recognize.
He was waiting outside a brownstone on a quiet street in Carroll Gardens — hands in his coat pockets, no suit, the weekend version of him she was still getting used to. Dark coat, dark jeans. The particular ease of a man not performing anything.
He looked up when she turned the corner. Something in his face
