Dante stared at Adrian across their small kitchen table, fork frozen halfway to his mouth.
"Four months?"
"Yeah."
"Not eight."
"Not eight."
Adrian watched Dante's face cycle through emotions—shock, fear, something that looked like grief—before settling on carefully blank.
"What did you tell them?"
"Nothing yet. I just got the email. I wanted to talk to you first."
"To me? Why? This is your decision."
"It affects both of us. Of course I'm talking to you."
Dante set down his fork carefully, like it might shatter. His hands were shaking slightly.
"Four months. That's January."
"Beginning of January. Spring semester starts the second week."
"So basically three and a half months from now."
"Yeah."
"We were supposed to have eight months."
Adrian's throat felt tight. "I know."
