The day moved on, but Abbie didn’t.
She went through the motions, wiped tables, stacked trays, thanked customers, but her mind stayed outside in the snow, replaying his voice, his face, that quiet, unreadable “This isn’t the last time you’ll see me.”
By the time she got home, the sky had turned the color of slate. The apartment smelled like garlic and butter, Alma cooking something experimental again.
“Finally!” Alma said, waving a spatula like a sword. “I was two minutes away from calling your boss to check if she kidnapped you.”
“I’m fine,” Abbie said, dropping her bag on the couch.
Francis, who by now treated their apartment like his own, looked up from the couch, where he was watching a show. “You look tired.”
“I am,” she said simply, pulling her hair into a bun. “It was busy tod
