By a quarter to eleven, Ryan glanced at the clock on the wall of his small office and rubbed the back of his neck. The paperwork could wait. Andrew's message from earlier that morning kept circling in his head, casual yet oddly insistent: *Come over at noon. I'll treat you to something good. Just us.*
Andrew treating anyone to a meal was about as common as snow in July. In all the years Ryan had known him, the man had never once reached for his own wallet when the bill arrived. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
He locked the office, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked the fifteen minutes to Andrew's apartment block under the pale winter sun.
When he knocked—three soft raps—Andrew opened the door almost immediately, wearing the widest, most unnatural smile Ryan had ever seen on him.
