She called him at noon on Wednesday.
Not a text. A call. Which was itself a communication because they had been texting almost exclusively for weeks and a call meant something different, more deliberate, less deniable.
He answered on the second ring.
"Dinner tonight," she said. "My place. Seven o'clock."
A pause. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything is fine." She looked at her laptop screen without seeing it. "I just want to cook dinner and I want you to be there." She paused. "Seren has been asking about you."
Another pause. Shorter this time. "Seven o'clock," he said. "I'll be there."
She put the phone down and sat with the decision she had just made and understood, clearly and without drama, what she was actually doing.
She was watching him. Carefully. Completely. With the full kno
