It was an ordinary Wednesday.She had been home an hour. Changed into his hoodie — the greyone, the one she had taken somewhere around week two and whichhad quietly stopped being his and started being hers without either ofthem acknowledging the transfer. Wine she had been promisingherself since her three o'clock. Feet up. The particular comfortabletiredness of a day that had gone well.Damien was cooking. She could hear him in the kitchen — hismusic low, something sizzling, the occasional sound of him openingthe fridge and closing it again. The apartment smelled like garlic andsomething warm and she was in the middle of deciding whether to tellhim it smelled good or whether she would just let him figure out fromher expression at dinner.She was halfway through her wine when the buzzer went.He came out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a cloth andlooked at the intercom screen and something changed in his face. Notdramatically. Just — a stillness that was different from
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