Arianne woke to an empty bed.

The sheets beside her were still warm. She shifted and felt it—the ache in her thighs, the sore spot on her hip where the mattress had pressed. Good ache. The kind that came after being touched, after letting someone else’s hands carry her. Last night’s tiredness had settled into something softer. Rest. Real rest.

She turned her head.

Franz was across the room. Back to her. The span of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the way his spine moved as he reached for something on the dresser. Trousers low on his hips. Shirt hanging open, unbuttoned, tails brushing his thighs. He hadn’t noticed she was awake.

She watched him reach for his watch. The leather strap dangling. Muscles shifting in his back.

Then her eyes found the scar.

Near his left shoulder blade. Pale now, healed. A raised line where the skin had knitted itself back together. The accident on set months ago—the one that sent him home with his arm in a sling. The only mark on him.

She didn’t think of it as a flaw. It was part of the body that had moved over hers last night. Patient. Unhurried. There.

She sat up. The sheet pooled around her waist. She held it against her chest with one hand, her hair a tangled mess past her shoulders. She pushed it back from her face.

Franz heard the rustle. Turned.

His face eased. "You’re awake."

"Barely." Voice rough. She cleared her throat. "What time is it?"

"Late. Almost nine." He turned back, fastening his watch. "Script reading today. Second season. First table read."

She nodded. She’d seen his schedule the night before—pulled it up on her phone before everything, before walking down the hall and into his room. She knew where he’d be.

"I’ll try to be home early."

"You said that last time."

"Last time I meant it."

"And now?"

He looked at her over his shoulder. "I mean it both times."

She almost smiled.

"I’ll be late tonight," she said. "Samantha and Audrey. Sam finished filming—the one she was on set for. Releases in three months. They want to celebrate."

"Good." Franz worked the buttons of his shirt from the bottom up. "She deserves it. It’s her first real role."

"She’s nervous."

"She shouldn’t be. She’s good."

"You’ve seen it?"

"No. But I know her." He paused on a button. "Did she say anything about the vineyards?"

Arianne shook her head, fingers working through her tangled hair. The sheet slipped; she caught it. "Not yet."

"I sent them weeks ago."

"She tells you everything. Why wouldn’t she tell you this?"

"Because she’s Sam." He resumed buttoning. "She’ll say they were all lovely and avoid picking one. Won’t want to seem ungrateful."

"So you want me to ask."

"You’re going out tonight. She’ll tell you." He paused. "She tells you things she doesn’t tell me."

Arianne didn’t answer. Sam did.

She pushed the sheet aside.

The air hit her bare skin. Cool. She bent and picked up her nightdress from the floor—pale gray cotton, discarded somewhere between the massage and everything after. Underwear too. Simple black, half-hidden under the bed. She stepped into them without ceremony, pulled the nightdress over her head. The cotton slid down, settling against her breasts, skimming her hips. The hem brushed her thighs.

Franz stopped moving.

His hands went still on his buttons—midway up, fabric hanging open. She crossed the room toward the door where her robe hung on the hook. Morning light caught her shoulder, the curve of her waist, the dark hair falling past. She moved easy. Unselfconscious.

His eyes tracked her. Jaw tightening. He didn’t move toward her. Dressed enough to leave. Table read. Already late.

But he watched.

She took the robe from the hook. Tied it loosely, the belt knotted once. Then she crossed back to him.

Standing where she’d left him. Shirt half-buttoned. Eyes dark. She reached up and took the collar in both hands. Adjusted it. Straightened the fabric where it folded at the neck. Then her fingers moved down—buttoning the rest, one by one. Neat. Efficient. Her knuckles brushing his chest through the cotton. Sure movements. Unhurried. Like she’d done it a hundred times or like it was the most natural thing she’d ever done.

Franz blinked. "You’re acting like a wife."

She didn’t look up. "I am your wife."

"I know. But you don’t—" He stopped. She finished the last button and smoothed the collar flat. "You don’t usually do this."

She looked up. Her hands still on his chest. "Does it bother you?"

"No." Quieter than he intended. "No, it doesn’t."

She stepped back. Looked at him—shirt, trousers, watch. Then her eyes moved past him to the closet, the row of coats visible through the half-open door.

"Wear the brown one."

"The brown one?"

"It matches."

Franz didn’t move. Still watching her—standing in his bedroom in her robe, hair tangled, nightdress hem visible below the robe’s edge. She’d woken up in his bed and buttoned his shirt and picked out his coat. Arianne, who showed love in strategy and protection and staying. Doing something as simple as telling him what to wear.

He grinned.

Leaned down. Kissed the corner of her mouth. Not quite on the lips. Just beside. A brief press of warmth. He pulled back before she could respond—before he could be tempted to stay.

He crossed to the closet. Took the brown coat from its hanger. Put it on. The wool settled across his shoulders, deepening the blue of his shirt.

At the door, he turned. "I’ll be home early."

"You said that." 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

"I know." He held her gaze. "I meant it both times."

The door clicked shut. Footsteps receding down the hall.

Arianne stood in the middle of his bedroom. The bed still rumpled. The pillow still holding the shape of his head. The washcloth folded on the nightstand. The room smelled like him—soap, skin, whatever he used in his hair.

She pulled the robe tighter. Crossed to the window. Drew the curtain back.

Below, the car pulled away. Taking him to the studio. Table read. Second season. The life he’d built before her, still building, and she was part of it now.

She let the curtain fall. The morning light warm on her face. The brown coat gone from the closet.

A small smile. Private. No one there to see it.

Then she turned from the window. The day waiting—emails, the twins, the office, dinner with women who’d become, against all odds, her friends. But the quiet of his room held her another second. The smell of him. The ache in her thighs. The way he’d said wife like it was still catching him off guard.

She looked at the rumpled bed. The pillow with the shape of his head. The space she’d slept in and woken up different.

Then she went to start her day.

She paused at the door. Looked back.

She stepped into the hall. The house was waking up. Somewhere downstairs, the twins’ voices. Lily explaining something. Leo silent but listening. The smell of coffee.

The day started. But the quiet of his room stayed with her. The brown coat gone. The words still hanging: I meant it both times.

She believed him.

That was the thing. She believed him.