"That's not—"
"That's exactly what it is. Dressed up in tactical language. Same argument. Smarter delivery."
His knuckles go pale on the mug. We stare at each other across eight feet, and the air between us has the same heat as his office. This time, neither of us moves closer.
"The Rylan variable is real," he says, quieter now.
"So is the wordtourist.And it's still in my chest a month later, so maybe your critique landed better than you think."
My phone buzzes.
My pulse jumps so hard my fingers freeze over the keyboard. I pick up and press the phone to my ear before I can talk myself out of answering.
The line is open.
Faint static hums against my ear. No breathing. No voice. That same specific silence, the one that feels less like absence and more like someone standing very still on the other end.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
Dead.
The phone stays pressed to my ear until my hand starts shaking. I lower it, set it face-down on the cushion beside my laptop, and press my hands together in my lap hard enough that my knuckles ache.
Four in. Four hold. Four out.
"Maya."
My first name. Without me saying his first. The last time he used it, I'd saidGoodnight, Dante,and he gave it back. This time, he reaches for it on his own.
I don't look up.
"Who was that?" he asks.
"Nobody."
"Your hand is shaking."
"It's not."
"You answered. You stayed silent. You listened to nothing for six seconds and hung up. That's someone."
"Spam."
The house goes quiet.
He sets his coffee on the side table, stands, and goes to the kitchen. A cabinet opens too hard. The kettle hits the stove.
He comes back with a mug, tea bag still steeping, and sets it on the coffee table in front of me hard enough that it sloshes over the rim. Then he steps back toward the armchair.
Barry's. The same brand as two weeks ago, still on the shelf.
I pick up the mug. The warmth seeps through my palms, into my fingers, into the tremor I want to hide from him. The shaking slows anyway.
"Thank you," I say.
He sits back down in the armchair. His coffee is on the side table, forgotten and cold. He looks at his phone, screen angled away. His thumb does not move.
Minutes pass.
