Lena set two mugs down. The kettle began its low climb.

“He doesn’t rush,” she said. “He makes you ask. Then he makes you ask again so you hear yourself.”

Owen nodded once, as if she had given him a measurement.

“And you,” she said. “You rush at the start and then you get slow. You watch my face like you’re taking notes. You hate being told what to do until you don’t.”

A breath went out of him. Not quite a laugh.

“That’s a neat trick,” he said. “Describe me like I’m already in the room with him.”

“You asked.”

“I did.”

The kettle clicked off. Lena poured. Steam...