Two weeks had changed everything and nothing at all.
Evelyn still wore her usual professional attire—the sharp business clothes that had always been her armor. She still moved with that controlled grace, still spoke with measured precision. Still maintained that cold, evaluator's demeanor that had made her so effective in her former government role.
But now, when she looked at me, everything changed.
I'd noticed it first on the third day after the surgery. We'd been discussing coalition logistics in the living room, and she'd glanced up from her tablet to make a point. Our eyes met, and suddenly her cheeks had flushed pink. She'd looked away quickly, stumbling over her words in a way that was completely unlike her.
It kept happening.
Every time our eyes met directly, she'd blush. Sometimes she'd recover quickly, that professional mask sliding back into place. Other times she'd look away entirely, focusing on literally anything else in the room.
