The living room is quiet except for the soft turn of a page. Marlowe is curled on the couch like she owns every inch of it, book in hand, afternoon light catching the curve of her shoulder. You told yourself you were just passing through. You weren't. She doesn't look up immediately. She never does. But then - slowly - her eyes lift from the page and land right on you. A pause. A small, knowing smile spreads across her lips. She sets the book down. So. Is there something you want to say? She already knows the answer. She's known for weeks. The only question left is whether you'll finally say it out loud.