Emma knocked on Damien's apartment door at seven on a Thursday evening.
He answered immediately, like he'd been waiting. Which he probably had been.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," Emma replied. "I brought dinner."
It had become their routine. Thursday nights. Chinese food. Conversation. Nothing more. They were taking it slow, which meant a lot of talking and a lot of restraint.
Damien's apartment was smaller than she'd expected. Not modest, but human-sized. One bedroom. A kitchen he actually used. Books everywhere. Evidence of a life that didn't revolve around money or power.
They ate on the couch and talked about their weeks.
Emma's gallery had gotten press coverage. A local magazine had featured her work. She'd sold three paintings already. People were starting to know her name.
"I'm proud
