Franz woke before the sun.

The room was dark. The curtains were drawn against the pale gray light that hadn’t yet become morning. The lamp on the nightstand was off. The house was quiet. Somewhere down the hall, the twins were still asleep. Somewhere in the kitchen, Aunt Estella was probably already moving, her slippers soft on the floor, the kettle beginning its low hum. But here, in this room, nothing stirred.

Arianne was curled against his side.

She was wearing one of his shirts—an old one, soft from years of washing, the sleeves rolled up twice to free her hands. He’d given it to her last night after the shower, pulled it from the drawer and handed it to her without comment. She’d slipped it on over her head, the hem falling to her thighs—short shorts underneath—and crawled into bed before he’d even turned off the bathroom light. Her hair, still damp then, spread across his pillow.

He’d dried it for her.

She’d sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes already heavy, and he’d stood behind her with the dryer and worked through the dark strands section by section until they were warm and dry and soft against his fingers. By the time he finished, she was listing sideways. He’d guided her down to the mattress. She’d murmured something—not words, just sound, the kind of sound someone makes when they’re already more asleep than awake—and curled into him, her hand resting flat on his chest, her breath slowing.

He’d lain awake for a while after that. Her weight against him. The quiet. The knowledge that she was safe, that the night was over, that whatever had happened outside that club was done.

Now it was morning. Almost. The light at the edges of the curtains was pale and tentative, the first hint of dawn.

He watched her sleep.

Her face was relaxed. No tension in her jaw, no furrow between her brows. She looked younger like this. Unguarded. The way she only looked when she felt safe, and she only felt safe with him. It had taken him a long time to understand that—that her guardedness wasn’t coldness, that her walls weren’t rejection. She’d spent years building them. She was spending weeks letting them down.

So much had changed since they married.

He thought about the early months. The careful distance she’d kept, even after the wedding. She’d made decisions alone and presented them as finished. She’d disappear into her study for hours and call it work, and he’d let her go because pushing her would have been the wrong thing, because waiting was what he knew how to do, because he’d waited years already and could wait longer if she needed him to.

But she’d changed. Slowly at first, then faster. She’d started telling him things now. Not everything—she was still Arianne—but the things that mattered. She let people in now.

A year ago, she would have handled everything alone. She would have stood outside that club and fought those men and then gone home and closed the study door and processed it in silence, and he would have found out about it days later, if at all.

Now she came home. Now she told him. Now she asked for what she needed.

Be here when I get back. Before and after. Yes.

Even in bed—he paused on this thought, careful with it. She’d always been responsive. From the first night, from the early months when things were still tentative and new, she’d met him with openness. But lately it was different. She’d been more present. More demanding. Her hands on his, guiding him. Her voice low and certain. Like that. Yes. Don’t stop. She used to receive. Now she participated. Now she took what she wanted and told him what she wanted and didn’t apologize for any of it.

The difference mattered. He held it close, private, something he wouldn’t say aloud but would remember.

The twins’ birthday was this coming Friday.

They’d be five. Lily had been very clear about what she wanted. Franz had asked her last week—a party, maybe, with friends from school, decorations in the garden, something big and bright and full of noise. She’d shaken her head before he finished the sentence.

"Just us," she’d said. "And Kyle. Kyle can sleep over."

"What about a cake?"

"Chocolate. With strawberries. But not a party. Just dinner."

Leo had nodded beside him, the whale in his lap, and typed: NO PARTY.

So it would be private. Dinner at the estate. Kyle overnight—Julian’s son, now firmly part of the twins’ small circle. The three of them had been planning the sleepover for weeks, whispering in the playroom, Lily making lists of games they could play and snacks they would need.

Their fifth birthday. The first since Leo had started carrying the Lion again.

Franz hadn’t figured out what to give them yet. He had a few days.

And after their birthday—the anniversary. His and Arianne’s. A year. He hadn’t figured out what to give her either. She wasn’t someone who wanted objects. She was someone who wanted presence. Action. Proof. He’d spent a year learning that. He’d spend the next week figuring out how to show it.

Arianne stirred beside him. A small movement. Her hand shifted against his chest, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his shirt. Her brow furrowed briefly, some dream passing through, and then smoothed. She didn’t wake.

Franz leaned down. Pressed his lips to her forehead. The gesture was light, brief, barely a kiss. She settled deeper into sleep.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand. The screen glowed. Multiple messages from Daryll, time stamps starting just after five. He unlocked the phone and read them in order.

Call me when you wake up. Actually, read these first. The early coverage was bad.

Then the video surfaced. One of the fans uploaded it. The one with the camcorder. It’s everywhere. 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

The three fans posted a statement on the official forum. Long. Detailed. They admitted to following Arianne. They apologized. They thanked her. They called her a hero.

The entire fanbase is rallying behind her. I’ve never seen anything like it. No statement needed from us. It’s handling itself.

She’s good for you. In case you were wondering. Call me when you wake up.

Franz read the last message twice. Daryll wasn’t sentimental. He’d managed Noah Hart’s career for years with the precision of someone who treated feelings as liabilities and sentiment as a PR risk. For him to say that—she’s good for you—meant something.

He opened the fan forum.

The official Noah Hart community was in full mobilization. Posts were appearing faster than he could track them, the thread titles blurring into a cascade of support. The words that kept appearing were protector and capable and family.

And then, over and over: sister-in-law.

He paused on that. Scrolled back. Read it again. The fans had adopted her. Claimed her. Not as Noah Hart’s girlfriend or partner or mystery woman. As family. The term they used—it wasn’t just a label. It was a relationship. A claim of belonging.

His fans had always been protective of him. Sometimes too protective. He’d seen them tear down co-stars they didn’t trust, rumors they didn’t believe. He’d spent years managing their expectations without ever directly engaging, letting Daryll handle the forums and the social media and the careful work of keeping the fanbase loyal without letting them become dangerous.

And now they’d decided Arianne was one of them.

He set the phone down on his chest. Stared at the ceiling. Another layer of protection. Not from him—from thousands of people who would now defend her as fiercely as they defended him.

They’d seen what he saw. What he’d always seen.

The light at the edges of the curtains was brighter now. Morning, arriving.

Arianne shifted against him. Her hand moved from his chest to his side, her arm draping across his waist. She still didn’t wake.

Franz looked at her. The dark hair on his pillow. His shirt on her shoulders. The soft, even rhythm of her breathing.

A year ago, he lay on this bed alone.

Now she was here. In his bed. In his shirt. Her arm across his waist. Her breath warm against his shoulder.

He didn’t know what he’d give her for their anniversary. He didn’t know what words he’d use, what gesture would be enough. But he knew what he wanted to tell her. What he’d been telling her in every way except words for months now.

I choose this. I choose you. I’m not going anywhere.

He’d find the words. When the time was right.

The room was quiet. The house was waking. Franz closed his eyes.

The day hadn’t started yet. There was time. There was still time.

He let his hand rest on Arianne’s shoulder. She didn’t stir. Her breathing stayed slow and even. The morning light crept further across the curtains.

He stayed where he was.