The call comes just after lunch.
The timing feels intentional, even though I know better than to assign meaning where there may be none. Damian is rinsing two mugs at the sink, sleeves rolled, sunlight cutting clean lines across the kitchen floor. The house smells like coffee and sea air and something faintly sweet from the bakery down the road.
Normal.
That word still feels fragile.
His phone vibrates once on the counter. He glances at the screen, then stills.
“That’s him,” he says.
My chest tightens. “Already?”
Damian nods and steps away from the sink, drying his hands slowly, deliberately, like he’s preparing both of us for whatever comes next. He answers without ceremony.
“Yes… Go ahead.”
I sit at the table, fingers lacing together, unlacing, then lacing again. I watch Damian’
