The taxi eased up to the gate of your two‑story house. Phin stepped out, paid the driver without so much as a backward glance, and walked toward your front door. It was nearly seven in the evening; he was slightly late, though he knew, as always, that you would be waiting. For reasons he couldn't name, your calls used to come roughly once a month and, over the past year and a half, had crept into something closer to weekly. Your life, it seemed, had unraveled from mere uncertainty into a tight coil of stress you kept asking him—silently—to help undo.

Why should he care about your troubles? Why had he noticed the dark circles under your eyes last week and assumed you’d simply had a bad day? Why was he hesitating now, standing on your porch, unsure whether to ring the bell or turn away? Of all the people he had ever slept with, you were inexplicably the hardest to read. The first night with you lodged in his memory more than any other—you had cried, though you told him not to pay it mind, as if your pain were solely yours and his job only to make you feel better. Phin had seen it differently. Your eyes had shouted, “Never ask,” and he obeyed.

Instead of revealing yourself, you had asked about him. Why bother knowing more about the man you call when you only need to know whether he’s available tonight? Your behavior puzzled him—like someone trying to enjoy life but held back by an invisible weight. Should he press you for answers? Insist you confess what you feel? Or should he do what’s easiest: perform his work and ignore your problems? The practical choice seemed obvious, yet the thought lodged like a stone in his throat.

He reached for the doorbell. After a moment he heard hurried footsteps, the tumbling of a key, and the door swung open. Phin paused on the threshold, unwilling to step inside, fixing you with his intense blue eyes. He spoke in a dry, businesslike tone—because this was, after all, what he’d come to do—and yet there was something else beneath the words.

“We need to talk.”