Nothing.
In eight years, Eugene had liked every single one of my posts.
I'd asked him once—you're always so busy, how do you manage to catch everything I post the second it goes up?
He'd laughed, fingers running slow through my hair. *Because you matter to me. So I never stop paying attention.*
My fingertip traced a restless circle against my palm, and my thumb brushed the screen without meaning to.
The page slid to Eugene's X profile—and there, posted one minute ago, was a new update: an evening sky, location tagged at the little park near our apartment.
The caption read:
Busy all day. Finally get to breathe.
There was one comment.
You worked so hard today~ My treat next time!
Eugene had replied almost instantly.
Deal. No backing out.
I tapped into the profile of the person who'd commented.
A young woman with chestnut hair.
She hadn't been at Eugene's last company dinner.
1:45 a.m.
Eugene liked my Instagram post.
Then he messaged me, his tone the same bone-deep exhaustion as always.
"Babe, I'm seriously dying. Had no idea holiday overtime would be this brutal..."
"Two more days and you'll be back though. Send me your ticket, I'll pick you up."
"You're probably asleep already, right?"