The bakery two doors from the bookshop made something on Tuesdays with cardamom and pear that Damian had been meaning to try for three months.
He tried it on the morning after the first night apart.
Kendrick was already there when he arrived at eight oh three. Same corner table as the coffee shop — not the same café, but Damian noticed Kendrick had chosen the same configuration. Corner. Sightlines to the door. Back to the wall.
He'd learned, apparently, what Damian looked for in a room.
Damian sat down.
Kendrick pushed a cup across the table.
"Tea," he said.
"Yes." Damian wrapped his hands around it. "You ordered already."
"You texted eight minutes ago. I had time."
They looked at each other.
At the specific quality of the morning after — both of them tired, both of them present, neither of them pretending the night before hadn't happened.
"How was the couch," Kendrick said.
"Adequate." Damian held the gaze. "How was the penthouse."
