Lillian took me home.

Tobias drove behind us and carried my bag inside, then hovered near the kitchen counter as if he were unsure whether offering to make tea was too intimate.

“You can use the kettle,” I told him.

“It’s not a museum exhibit.”

He made tea too strong, and I drank it anyway.

My home was small, crowded with books and plants that had survived despite inconsistent sunlight.

Tobias walked slowly through the living room, noticing the handwoven blanket on the sofa, the map pinned beside the bookshelf, the photographs of Lillian and me on hiking trips.