She knocked twice.
The door opened and David stood there in the warm light of the hallway, a dish towel over one shoulder, the particular unhurried ease of a man who had been expecting her and had not spent the waiting time anxious about it. He smiled—the full, unguarded smile she'd known for nine years, the one that had never once required anything from her in return.
She couldn't give it back. It simply wasn't there. She stood in the doorway with her coat still on and her bag over her shoulder and her face carrying everything the day had put on it, and the smile was nowhere to be found.
David's expression didn't change. Didn't shift into concern or careful management or the specific adjustment people made when they registered that something was wrong. He just looked at her with the same warmth and stepped back from the door.
"Come in," he said.
She did. He closed it behind her.
