The great thing about making plans several days in advance is, it gives you plenty of time to overthink, regret, nearly cancel, get angry about, and then be melancholy about those plans. For several months after she left they didn't talk at all, and it was-- honestly-- terrible. She thought of it (somewhat uncharitably) like getting clean. Going through withdrawal, miserably reducing her reliance on something she enjoyed because sooner or later it was going to destroy them both.

It didn't mean she wanted to. It certainly didn't mean she didn't miss him.

Eventually, though, something had come up where she'd needed to talk to him, and... since then, things have been coming up. Whether they're all strictly needful-- she thinks they are. At least, she tells herself it's reasonable. Rational. Just like she'd told herself it's worth getting him out of the house to have dinner with him.

And he looks good. Which is-- good. Even if it gives her a pang of loss to see him, she's glad he's doing all right. She takes a breath as she crosses the restaurant and slides into the opposite seat.

"How was squatching?"