CLAIRE

I stared at my phone for exactly thirty seconds, then picked it up. Not to call Roman. Not yet. I opened our messages instead.

The last one was three weeks old.

**Roman:** Three weeks. You call if there's actual trouble.

Under it, my reply.

**Claire

CLAIRE

Four months later, Roman burned the toast.

I stood in the kitchen doorway and stared at the black rectangle in his hand. He stared back at me while smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.

"Don't say it," he warned.

I smiled. "I wasn't going to say anything."

"You're