"Nothing," he says. "Go back to bed."
"Ian." I cross the kitchen and stand beside him at the window. Outside, the garden is dark, the persimmon tree a black shape against the slightly lighter dark of the pre-dawn sky. My pulse is roaring in my ears. "Look at me."
He does, and his eyes are tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. They’re haunted, carrying something enormous and terrible.
"Talk to me," I say quietly, my voice cracking despite myself.
“I just—” he pulls a palm down his face “—I need you to go back to bed.”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Shutting me out. You’ve been doing it ever since?—”
"Ever since I kissed you." His gaze is fixed on mine, and my cheeks warm.
Neither of us looks away.
"Yes," I say quietly. "Ever since that."
He turns back to the window. A muscle moves in his jaw. "I'm not shutting you out. I'm just—" He stops.
"Taking two hour runs?"
A beat.
"Driving twenty minutes for groceries?"
Another beat.
"Going to bed at nine-thirty like a man with absolutely nothing on his mind."
He exhales. Almost a laugh. Almost. "Sophia?—"
"You're not subtle, Ian."
He looks at me then, and what's in his face is so unguarded it almost hurts to look at directly. Tired and conflicted and something else underneath both of those—something that hasn't gone anywhere since the kitchen, since the muffin tray hitting the tile, since his forehead pressed to mine in the dark.
"What do you want me to do?" he says. Not defensive. Genuinely asking. "Tell me what you want me to do with this, Sophia, because I'm running out of grocery lists."
"I don't want you to do anything with it." I look at thewindow, at the dark garden beyond it. "I just want you to stop disappearing. I'd rather have the tension than lose you to it."
The silence stretches.
"Yeah," he says finally. Soft. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." He looks at his phone. Something shifts in his face—the personal conversation closing, something else opening. Something heavier. "Sophia. I need you to go back to bed."
And I hear it this time. The difference. This isn't him conceding. This is him when he’s actively trying to keep something from me and would say anything to get me to leave.
"Ian." My pulse spikes. "What's happening?"
Not a question. He hears that too.
He opens his mouth. His phone lights up.
