He knocked on Rosa's door at exactly ten the next morning, precisely when he'd said he would, which felt, somehow, like its own small answer before we'd even said a word to each other.Rosa let him in, offering a quick, appraising look that seemed to satisfy whatever she was checking for, before grabbing her bag and announcing she had "extremely important bakery business" to attend to, leaving the two of us alone in the small, familiar apartment.He looked tired, more than I remembered, exhaustion carved into features that had only recently started recovering their color after the shooting. He stood near the door, hands in his pockets, not crowding the space between us, waiting for me to set the pace."Sit," I said, gesturing to the lumpy couch. "Please."He sat. I settled into the armchair across from him, needing the distance, needing to see his whole face clearly while we did this."I've had three days to think," I said. "I want to tell you what I need. Not what I think you want to
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