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"Almost two years."

"And it ended?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Earlier this year."

Ross looks at me for a moment.

"Did you love him?"

The question lands somewhere deeper than I expect. I think about Jason. His patience. His steadiness. The way he never pushed for more than I was able to give him.

"Yes," I say. "I loved him."

Ross looks down at the table. For the first time tonight, he has nothing to say. I should feel satisfied. Instead, something about his silence hurts.

The waiter approaches with the final course, and both of us sit back as dessert is placed between us. By the time we're alone again, the conversation has changed. So has the space between us. I can still feel every reason I should keep my distance. The anger hasn't vanished. The past hasn't become easier because Ross finally knows how to admit he was wrong. But sitting across from him no longer feels like sitting across from a stranger I once loved. That's the dangerous part. It feels familiar—far too familiar. And for the first time since I came back to London, I'm not sure I want the evening to end.

By the time the waiter clears the last plates, it is nearly ten-thirty. I glance at my phone and immediately remember the folio I left at the archive that afternoon.

“Damn it,” I say.

Ross looks up from his coffee.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I left my folio at the archive.”

“The Whitcombe file?”

“No, my working folio,” I reply.

“It has my handwritten notes, tomorrow’s review list and the comparative sheets I need in the morning.”

Ross sets his cup down.

“The archive is only a few blocks from here.”

“I know.”

“You can pick it up now,” he says.

“I was planning to.”

Ross reaches for the check before I can.

“I’ll walk with you.”

I give him a look.

“I can manage a few blocks through Mayfair by myself.”

“I’m sure you can,” he says.

“Then why are you offering?”