The final version was almost aggressive in its neutrality:
Mr. Besharov—
I've considered your proposal and would like to discuss it further. I can meet tomorrow evening at my studio if that works for your schedule.
Auralia Hart
Professional. Distant. Giving nothing away. I'd deleted the exclamation point after "further" seventeen times before admitting to myself that I'd never used an exclamation point in professional correspondence and wasn't about to start now. I'd removed "please" from the second sentence because it sounded too eager. I'd considered signing off with "Best regards" and decided it was too warm, then considered "Regards" and decided it was too cold, then gave up and used nothing at all.
My name looked naked sitting there at the bottom. Unprotected.
I pressed send before I could start the cycle again.
The waiting was physical. A tightness in my chest, a low hum of electricity along my arms. Ghost lifted his head and gave me a long look—that particular whippet expression that said he knew exactly what I was doing and didn't approve.
"I'm fine," I told him.
He sighed and put his head back down. Neither of us believed me.
I refreshed my inbox. Nothing. Refreshed again. Still nothing.
This was ridiculous. It was nearly eleven at night. Maksim Besharov was probably asleep, or out somewhere doing whatever beautiful, wealthy men did on weekday evenings. He'd respond tomorrow, maybe the next day. Maybe he'd changed his mind entirely and I'd never hear from him again.
That thought should have been relieving. Instead it made my stomach drop.
I closed the laptop. Opened it again. Refreshed my inbox.
The response was waiting.
Four minutes. He'd responded in under four minutes, which either meant he'd been waiting at his computer like I had, or he never slept. I clicked on the message with fingers that weren't quite steady.
Miss Hart—
Tomorrow works perfectly. Send me the address and a time. I'll bring coffee.
—M
I read it twice. Three times. The words were simple enough—confirmation, logistics, a sign-off that managed to feel warm despite its brevity. But it was the last sentence that undid me.
I'll bring coffee.
Such a small thing. An offer of caffeine, not a demand that I provide hospitality. Not an assumption that I'd have the right kind or remember to make it or manage the social choreographyof being a good host. Just: I'll bring it. I'll take care of that part. One less thing for you to worry about.
Lis would do that.
The thought arrived before I could stop it, bringing all its complicated baggage with it. Lis noticed the small things, adjusted without being asked, made space for my limitations without making them feel like limitations. Every night he asked about water, food, sleep. Every night he checked whether I'd taken care of myself, and when I hadn't, he didn't make me feel broken for forgetting.
The coffee detail felt like that. Like someone paying attention. Like someone who had looked at me for twenty minutes in a gallery and registered something about who I was, then adjusted accordingly.
I should not be making this comparison. Lis was one person and Maksim was another and just because they both noticed things didn't mean they were the same or that I should be conflating them or that—
I was thinking about Lis too much.
I was thinking about Maksim too much.
I was thinking about both of them in ways that felt tangled and confusing and slightly dangerous, and I didn't know what to do with any of it.
The guilt from earlier had evolved into something more complicated. Not just betrayal but confusion. Not just shame but longing. I wanted Lis to message me tonight, wanted his familiar questions and his careful patience and the safety of our established routines. But I also wanted to see Maksim again, wanted to be in the same room with him, wanted to know if the warmth I'd felt when he caught me was real or just the disorientation of falling.
