They don’t kiss. Not yet. Instead, they sit on her floor among the pots and pruning shears. She makes tea. He tightens a wobbly shelf in her kitchen without being asked.

“No,” she agrees. “It’s the thousand small things we’ve stopped saying out loud.”

She texts him first. Not I miss you . Not I’m sorry . Instead: The jasmine you gave me is blooming. It’s not supposed to until May.