The call came on a Tuesday morning.
Emma was in Nick's kitchen, making coffee. She had been staying at his penthouse for four days now — not officially living there, but close enough. A drawer in his dresser. A toothbrush in his bathroom. A pair of her shoes by the door.
Nick was still in bed. He had started sleeping later now that he didn't have to be at the office by 8:00 AM sharp. Dr. Chen had suggested it. Emma had encouraged it.
He was changing.
Slowly. Imperfectly. But changing.
Emma poured two cups of coffee — his with three sugars and a dash of cream, hers black — and carried them to the bedroom. Nick was sitting up, his hair messy, his eyes still heavy with sleep.
"You're still here," he said.
"I'm still here."
"I keep expecting to wake up alone."
Emma set the coffee on t
