He rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah. I lost track of time.”
“I figured,” I say.
Something in my tone must give me away because his attention sharpens.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. Then I pause. “Mostly.”
He leans back in his chair, watching me now. “What does that mean?”
I shift my weight, crossing my arms loosely. “You never showed up.”
There’s no irritation in his voice … just caution.
He exhales. “I told you not to wait up.”
“I know,” I say. “And I didn’t.”
That seems to confuse him. “Then what’s the problem?”
I take a breath. This is the moment where I either swallow it or say it cleanly.
“I think I would’ve appreciated a little more warning,” I say. “Or at the very least, a text, letting me know you weren’t even coming at all.”
His brow furrows. “I was in the middle of researching.”
“I know,” I say again. “And I’m not upset about that.”
“Then—”
“I’m simply explaining how it felt,” I interrupt gently.
He stands, rolling his shoulders, like the tension has been sitting there all day. “I felt like I was being efficient.”
I blink. “Efficient?”
“Yes,” he says. “I didn’t want you waiting around.”
“I wasn’t,” I reply. “Until I was because you never actually told me you weren’t coming at all.”
There’s a pause.
He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out where the wires crossed. “You could’ve said that.”
“I am,” I say softly. “Now.”
He exhales sharply, but not in an angry way … more like he’s uncomfortable. “Melissa, I don’t want to overanalyze this.”
“I’m not asking you to,” I say. “I just didn’t want to pretend it didn’t bother me.”
His jaw tightens. “It feels like expectations.”
I nod. “It’s communication.”
“That’s a fine line,” he says.
“Only if you’re afraid of it,” I reply before I can stop myself.