"Dante brings it out of me," he explains.
"He knew me before all my… everything. Back when I was just a stubborn kid who thought he could change the world, one
plate at a time."
"And did you?" I ask. "Change the world?"
He's silent and thoughtful for a moment, rolling an oyster shell between his fingers.
"I built something. Whether that constitutes changing the world… Ask me in ninety days when Olympus launches."
The mention of our timeline creates a small silence. The warm bubble of wine and oysters and unexpected connection pops, leaving us back in reality where I'm dying—well, no, not dying, just going blind, but it feels like dying sometimes—and he's paying me to pretend everything's fine.
"Not ninety," I say.
"Huh?"
I raise my eyes. "It's past midnight. That means eighty-seven days now," I say. "Not ninety."
Andrew sets down the shell and looks at me directly. His eyes in the warm light aren't their usual arctic blue but something softer, like the ocean at dusk.
