The mention of our timeline creates a small silence. The warm bubble of wine and oysters and unexpected connection pops, leaving us back in reality where I’m dying—well, no, not dying, just going blind, but it feels like dying sometimes—and he’s paying me to pretend everything’s fine.
I raise my eyes. “It’s past midnight. That means eighty-seven days now,” I say. “Not ninety.”
Bastian sets down the shell and looks at me directly. His eyes in the warm light aren’t their usual arctic blue but something softer, like the ocean at dusk. “Then we’d better make them count.”
The weight of his gaze is too much. I look away, catch Dante watching us from the corner of the bar with an expression I can’t read.
“Another round?” Dante asks gently.
“I should probably stop,” I say. “I’ve had many oyst
