Marcos didn't like the plan.
"That's not a plan," Marco said, "that's a hope dressed up as a plan—"
"Most good plans are," Dorian said quietly, he was looking at me now, "He built twenty years of architecture around two girls who would never meet, never compare notes, never stand in the same room until he chose the moment." He looked between us, twin faces, the same eyes, and something in his voice when he spoke again was quieter, almost reverent. "And he's three days early for his own plan, because the two of you just broke it before it started."
"Then we go today," I said. "before he adjusts."
"I'm coming," my mother said immediately.
"Mom—"
"I am coming," she said again, in the voice I recognised from eighteen years of arguments I'd never won, "that man took my daughter out of a h
