Twenty Seven Days
The kitchen grew quiet as the November evening pressed against the glass, the park below sinking into a deep, bruised purple.
"Tomorrow," she said.
"Tomorrow," he agreed.
Margot appeared in the guest room doorway, leaning against the frame. "I’d like to officially note," she said, "that I cracked Apex-7 on zero sleep and approximately fourteen double espressos. I feel that deserves some form of historic recognition."
"It deserves significant recognition," Scarlett agreed with a ghost of a smile.
"It deserves dinner," Xavier said. "I’ll cook."
Both women turned to look at him, stunned.
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