He hardly had to wait for her arrival at all. It was almost like fate. Calvin propped his book on the table so that he had the excuse of it, but surreptitiously watched every move while she entered the room and went about making her tea. He'd taken one of the chamomile, too. It was almost like they were having tea together. It would have been sweet, except that she looked so distraught. There was red around her eyes; it could have meant that she'd been crying or that she'd been trying not to, but having watched her for the past few weeks he thought it was most likely both. And she wasn't sleeping well, that was obvious now that he could see her more than just in passing. He could have helped with that, if they were together. He could have massaged out each point of tension and put her to bed with a cup of tea. He could have listened to all of the things she was trying to hold back from everyone else. He could have taken them all, and she would have slept soundly and woken up to a fresh pastry from the Ivy Leaf.

Moot point; they weren't together. It was an oversight on his part. He could have approached her months ago, if he'd known there was a sense of urgency to it. He hadn't wanted to, because he still hadn't felt ready to finally pull the trigger, but he hadn't known then that her father would be dying. Now whenever they did meet he was going to have to carry the sting of this — that she had needed him here in this moment, and he hadn't been there for her yet.

Her tea was finished. Even the way she yawned was beautiful. There was a muscle that flexed in her neck when she bent her head that way, as she sat down at one of the tables, and it made him ache to put his hand on the back of her neck. She was about to become an orphan and he wasn't going to be there to comfort her through any of it. He could hardly stand it. Maybe staying behind to see her had been a bad idea.

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