With that thought, I let exhaustion take over and drifted into an uneasy sleep.
The next morning, I woke to the smell of something warm and familiar. Gale had already made congee. He brought the bowl to me, his expression soft with concern.
“Is it hurt so much? You cried yourself to sleep last night,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the corner of my eye where the redness lingered.
He reached for the bowl to feed me, but I pulled back slightly, the pit of unease in my stomach twisting tighter.
Just then, a notification popped up on his phone.
I caught a glimpse of it before he snatched it, covering the screen with his hand.
[Flossie: I’m in the dressing room at the mall. You’ve got 15 minutes before I changed my mind.]
The vein on his temple pulsed as he pressed the phone against his palm, locking the screen.
“Baby, there’s some loose ends from my last job I need to deal with.” His tone was smooth, almost too casual. “I promise it won’t get in the way of your birthday.”
As a tactician, I knew better. There were no “loose ends” left to tie up.
His throat bobbed—an obvious tell. I watched him fidget in his seat, the tension radiating off him.