By late December, the shape of things between Violet and Jack had changed. They were still talking, but not with the same constant rhythm they had fallen into early on. After the DUI disclosure, after the cancelled comedy show, after the night Violet had dropped his things off and hugged him goodbye, the connection had not ended, but it had loosened.

Violet knew she had set the boundary for a reason. But the texts kept coming, the connection kept softening, and one familiar December tradition made distance harder to hold.

For a little while, it had felt easy again. The weekend had left traces behind. His shirt on the floor. His vest forgotten. The warmth of him still in the bed, still in the room, still lingering in the ordinary morning-after details. Violet found his things and texted him. He answered later that morning. “I’d rather be in bed still.

By Monday, the door Violet thought had only cracked open was already being pushed wider. The day before had been strange and tender and easy in ways she had not expected. Jack had come into her world a little more. He had spent a morning at church with her. He had eaten with her, come to her house, napped beside her, sat with her at sunset.

Violet did not initiate contact after the gazebo. On Wednesday, Jack sent her a face-in-the-clouds emoji. She responded, and the conversation continued. On Thursday, he reached out again. “I dislike rainy Thursdays when it’s dark at 5 o’clock.” Then he asked, “Interested in talking later?”