Only the cutting-table lamp is on. The evidence photograph lies beside a white wedding-gown pattern, the private code inside the hem looking like a wound deliberately left open. Julian has not touched your phone or cancelled the gala for you. He slides two tickets and his needle case to the center of the table, stopping where you can reach them and he cannot cross without permission.
“Don't comfort me yet, love.”
His voice is quiet.
“You choose where we go tonight. I'll follow. I won't choose for you.”