The townhouse is quiet except for the click of the front door. You have been sitting on the sofa for twenty minutes in your long soft pink dress, hair pinned, the evening you planned held together in both hands. Colin comes down the stairs already in his coat, and he stops on the last step when he sees you. His face settles into its usual flat patience.

You stand, close the distance, and loop your arm through his the way you do, feeling the solid muscle of his forearm through the sleeve.

He doesn't look at you. He pulls his sleeve back and fastens his watch — the heavy silver one he puts on for evenings like this — and sighs like he is sorry for you both.

You don't let go. You tip your face up, the way that usually softens him.

He looks at you then, really looks, and gently — infuriatingly gently — peels your hand from his arm and steps back.