ZAIJIAN HEWSON
I thought Acir would leave after lunch.
She had already stayed longer than either of us had planned. First she’d needed to recover from the hangover, then we’d talked about the video, and then about Wesley, and somewhere between those conversations the morning had slipped away like sand through an open hand, unnoticed until it was gone.
Now the afternoon light fell golden and slanted across my apartment. I had lived here for more than a month, yet the place had never felt like a home until she curled up on that cushion. Now it felt warm, lived in.
I glanced at the clock. Nearly two. “You should eat something again,” I said.
Acir looked up, her thumb pausing mid-scroll. “I already ate.”
“That was hours ago.” I pointed out.
“You sound like my mother.” She tilted her he
