Chapter 8. Smells Like You

On Sunday evening, Diana opened the door herself. The new lock had been fitted the afternoon before. Gabriel had neither called from the street nor appeared on her landing until she texted: Seven, if you still want to finish the conversation.

He had answered: I do. Now he waited with his hands empty, watching her rather than the doorway. She stepped aside.

Gabriel filled it the moment he stepped inside. He had to duck under the low light fixture in the hall. He stood in her living room, taking in the worn couch, the stack of library books, and the half-burned candle on the windowsill, and he didn’t say a single condescending word.

“It smells like you,” he said instead.

“It smells like a vanilla candle.”

“Then you smell like a vanilla candle.” He turned to her. “I’ve wanted to know for months.”

“That’s still creepy.”

They sat on her worn couch, far enough apart that his knee did not touch hers. At his open collar she could see the beginning o