The next morning, Dan had an epiphany over a plate of mango sticky rice. “You should go to the floating market without me,” he said. “My stomach is doing flips from last night’s curry.”

That night, they didn’t argue about yogurt. They didn’t check emails. They rediscovered each other in the crisp hotel sheets, fueled by the phantom energy of a man who would never be anything more than a delicious footnote.

“Just use the fork, honey,” she said, not for the first time.

She went.

Mira sat on his lap, looping her arms around his neck. “Hot,” she whispered. Then she told him everything. Every glance, every almost-touch, every unspoken word.