It's the silence that tips things well past the point of pretense: Frazer tugs the pin from her hair, lets it fall to rest in pressed angles against her shoulders. The heat and humidity of Africa making perfection nearly impossible.

Amongst other things.

When she turns on her heel to face him, she sets the small of her back against that high table, watching him for all those subtle, telling shifts in expression: "A year, Cutter. It's been a year."

Their anniversary, so to speak.