The restaurant on Jalan Kemang Raya was exactly what the index card had promised.
Small. Quiet. The kind of place that existed without announcing itself — no sign visible from the street, just a narrow door between two shopfronts that opened into something warm and unhurried inside. Exposed brick walls. Low lighting from pendant lamps that cast everything in the particular gold of late evening. Tables set far enough apart that conversations stayed private. The smell of something slow-cooked and good.
The kind of place someone had chosen very carefully.
Ethan was already there when she arrived.
He was sitting at a corner table — back to the wall, facing the room, the way she was learning he always preferred to sit — and he was not looking at his phone. He was simply sitting, hands folde
