Etienne's POV
Sleep wouldn't come.
Every time I closed my eyes her face sat behind my lids — the flash of hurt in the study, the way she'd said my name. I'd almost kissed her after we argued. Brilliant. Alexander, I scolded myself.
At two in the morning I surrendered to the restlessness and went downstairs. The house was a pocket of dark, the only light a pale rectangle spilling from the kitchen. I hung in the doorway for a beat, listening.
She was there, a silhouette by the stove in an oversized shirt that swallowed her frame. Her hair had escaped whatever halfhearted knot she'd worn earlier and fell soft and messy around her shoulders. She was making tea, every movement small and careful in the hush of the house.
"Couldn't sleep either?" I said.
She startled, nearly tipping the mug. "God, you scared me."
"Sorry." My voice felt too loud in the quiet.
She turned back to the kettle. "It's fine."
