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When Bishop went wherever he went for work—Molly hadn’t yet asked for more details—she, still on activity restrictions, stayed in the apartment and occupied her time in other ways.

Though it pained her to do so, Molly shoved aside curiosities about her own career. Last she remembered, she’d been dreaming of a professional life spent in libraries. But in this process of tackling her new life one thing at a time, she had to save questions about her job for later—or for another two weeks, at least, which was the minimum everyone was insisting she needed to recuperate. So that worry was for another time, another version of herself who was more prepared for the logistics of her new life.

“Not bad, Waters,” Bishop said. “So you’re treating us to drinks then?”

His words came with no sneer, nothing but what looked like genuine, if guarded, congratulations. Every time Bishop said something to Roy that wasn’t at least partially vile, Molly felt like she’d stepped into a separate reality.

“Sure am,” Roy said, beaming. “I realize it’s the middle of the week, but we’re going out. You’ll come, right?”

Bishop locked eyes with Molly.

“Yes,” she said, already breathless at the thrill of doing something different, something new.

“We’re going to do a nice dinner. Make a whole thing of it,” Roy said. “I’ll text you the rest of the details.”

Molly had been steadfastly wearing the same handful of old, casual outfits she remembered from before like they were a kind of cotton armor against an unfamiliar wardrobe and everything else.

But if Bishop was going to be selecting from his honestly obscene pocket square collection for the evening, Molly figured she ought to ditch the sports bra. And as it turned out, wearing something formal felt nice.

It was empowering to put on a dress and do her hair like her life required more of her than leggings and a sweatshirt.

She tried wrangling her hair into a bun, but the halo effect caused by her excess of flyaways sent her running into the arms of her faithful single French braid. She supposed it was nice that some things, at least, hadn’t changed that much.

Her dress, crushed velvet in a deep emerald green, clung to the soft curves she was still getting used to having. In her six lost years, her young adult frame had filled out into a body belonging to the woman whose face stared back at her in the mirror. Truth be told, she liked the way she looked in the dress, which was a difficult feeling to reconcile when she didn’t entirely recognize the reflection staring back at her.

A knock sounded against the bathroom door.

The dance she and Bishop had been doing to give each other adequate personal space required a lot of knocking on doors and waiting for permission to enter.

“I was curious what you’re wearing,” he said from the other side.

Molly gave her reflection one last glance, smiled for confidence, and opened the door.

Bishop had been standing right up against it, so she found herself suddenly face-to-face with him, with less than an arm’s length between them. A distance that immediately felt much smaller. While fully clothed, Bishop’s shirt was only halfway done up, as if his question about her dress had taken precedence over finishing.

It required more willpower than she would have liked to look at his face and not his chest.

Not that he would have noticed if she snuck a peek. His focus was nowhere near her face. His eyes dragged a heavy path over her dress, over her body inside the dress, until his gaze finally met hers, usual icy blue filled with heat. He cleared his throat as Molly swallowed back her unease at being so overtly examined.

“You went with the green dress. That’s—okay, I’ll change.” He turned to the bedroom.

Molly flushed with an unfamiliar sense of self-consciousness. She’d felt so good about how she looked, but one examination and cryptic comment from Bishop sent her confidence plummeting.

“Should I not have?” she asked, calling after him and hating that a small part of her wanted his approval.

“Sorry?” he asked.

“Worn the green dress. Should I not have?” She stepped into the hallway and gestured to herself. “I thought it looked nice.”

She paused when Bishop took a step toward her. He caught himself, as if he hadn’t realized he’d moved at all, and then stood painfully still.

“You look—it’s lovely. The dress. It’s one of my favorites on you.” His words came slow, but steady. As if giving her every opportunity to halt his compliment. “But I have a blue that will pair better. I’ll change and we can leave.” He finished unbuttoning his shirt as he spoke, unfazed by the presence of his chest in this conversation.

Molly had to look away, face heating as he disappeared into the bedroom, leaving her to wonder about the fabric currently resting against her skin. Like almost everything else inside the apartment, it had a history she didn’t know. It was like walking a minefield in her own home, half expecting everything she touched to blow up, never knowing what was secretly more than met the eye.

Molly had been surprised to find Bishop still driving his expensive, though now a bit outdated, sedan from high school. She had distinct memories of him flaunting it in Laburnum’s student parking lot as an early graduation gift. She would have expected him to have upgraded two or three times by now.

As they turned onto the main road, Alannah’s name flashed on her phone screen—which, Molly realized, had automatically connected to the speaker system, out-prioritizing Bishop’s.