A run, 2026

She was already in running clothes when he came downstairs, already moving toward the door. He grabbed his shoes. The neighborhood was still dark. A few lights on in kitchens where people were making the same choices they were. She set the pace. He matched it. Not out of deference—they'd stopped being polite years ago—but because it worked. "How'd you sleep?" he asked. "Didn't. Interview's today." "You'll nail it." She didn't respond to that. They both knew he'd read her remarks twice, found what didn't land, suggested changes. She'd taken what worked and left the rest. That was the deal. He didn't need her to thank him for it.