Andre closed the door behind them. The driveway light narrowed to a blade through the glass. For a moment they were only breath and coat-wool and the cold of the bottle transferring into his palm.
Rachel's shoulders dropped a fraction. She looked toward the dark kitchen as if the dark itself might answer her, and then she looked at him, and the nervousness in her face tried to become excitement and almost managed it.
"Relax. Jason won't be back until tomorrow."
Andre's smile finished itself. He stepped closer, not touching her yet, the bottle hanging at his side, leather shoes quiet on the wood. The confidence was real. So was the relief under it, the relief of a man who had spent months learning how to want someone without a witness.
"Then we finally have some time."
The lights came on all at once.
Not a lamp. Not the honest accident of a switch. The whole open room leapt into brightness as if the house had been holding its breath under a hand: pendants over the island, recessed cans, the chandelier above the dining table, the sconces by the fireplace. Balloons, gold and cream, bobbed against the ceiling where the dark had hidden them. Candles stood in glass holders along the mantel and the island, some of them already lit by a patient hand, small flames suddenly visible and slightly ashamed of themselves. Wrapped gifts made a careful pile on the coffee table in front of the pale sectional. On the dining table, an anniversary cake waited under a stand, white frosting, a thin gold script Rachel could not yet read, and beside it a silver frame turned just enough that the glass caught the new light.