The estate was dark when they arrived.
Franz drove with one hand on the wheel and the other holding hers. His thumb moved absently across her knuckles. Neither of them spoke. The city slid past the windows, streetlights bleeding into the dark, and Arianne let her head rest against the seat and didn’t pull away.
The foyer lamp was on low. Aunt Estella had left it on—a small warmth against the dark house. She’d gone to bed hours ago, but she’d known they weren’t ho yet. She always knew.
Franz shrugged off his coat. The brown one. The one Arianne had picked out that morning. He hadn’t changed. His shirt was still the sa one she’d buttoned for him, the collar slightly rumpled now, the sleeves pushed up his forearms. He looked like a man who’d been running on adrenaline and was about to crash.
Arianne paused at the foot of the stairs. Looked up toward the east wing. The twins’ door was closed. No light underneath.
"Asleep," she said.
"Aunt Estella would have texted if they weren’t."
She nodded. Her body was heavy with exhaustion.
Franz took her hand firmly. Like he wasn’t giving her the option to pull away.
"Co on."
He led her up the stairs. Past the twins’ door. Past her study. Toward his room.
The door closed behind them.
Franz didn’t turn on the overhead light. He crossed to the nightstand in the dark, his hand finding the lamp, and the room blood into a low amber glow. The bed was still unmade from this morning—the sheets rumpled where she’d left them, the pillow still holding the shape of her head.
Then he turned to her.
His hands found her shoulders. Ran down her arms. He turned her gently, his palms skating over her ribs, her back, her hips. His eyes followed his hands. Searching. Checking. morizing every place she could have been hurt.
Arianne let him. She stood still under his hands and let him look. She knew he needed to see. He’d spent hours not knowing—driving to the station with nothing but Gilbert’s voice on the phone and his own imagination filling in the gaps.
His hands stopped at her waist. His forehead dropped to hers.
"No one touched ," she said quietly. "No one hit . No one got close enough. I’m fine."
He didn’t speak. His jaw was still tight.
She cupped his face. Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones, the slight roughness of stubble. "Franz. I’m fine."
He exhaled. Long and shaky. His hands tightened on her waist.
"The script reading ran late," he said. His voice was rough at the edges. "I was driving ho when Gil called. He said there was a fight. Five n. He didn’t have details. He just said you were at the station and I should co."
He pulled back. Looked at her.
"I checked the internet. Nothing. No news, no posts, no ntions. I didn’t know if you were hurt. If Sam was hurt. If anyone had a weapon. I didn’t know anything."
"You ca."
"Of course I ca."
He ran a hand through his hair. "You were supposed to have a nice night. Dinner. Drinks. Sam’s celebration. Not a bar fight. Not a police station."
"I know." She sighed.
"When did you last eat?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Food, Franz. When did you last eat?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. The answer was written on his face.
"Co on." She took his hand. "You need to eat."
The kitchen was dark.
Arianne didn’t turn on the overhead light. She crossed to the stove and clicked on the low light above the burner, the soft glow spilling across the counter. The rest of the room stayed in shadow.
She opened the refrigerator. Eggs. Leftover rice in a covered bowl. Scallions wilting slightly in the crisper. Butter in the door. A bottle of ketchup.
She moved around the kitchen without hesitation. She knew where the pans were now—the smaller skillet for eggs, the larger one for rice. She knew which drawer held the spatula and which cabinet held the plates. She didn’t have to ask anymore.
Franz leaned against the counter. He didn’t offer to help. He just watched.
She worked quickly. Rice into the hot pan, scallions chopped with quick, efficient motions, a splash of soy sauce that hissed against the tal. The kitchen filled with warmth and the sll of butter lting.
Then the eggs. She beat them smooth in a small bowl, poured them into a separate pan, tilting it to spread the yellow liquid thin. The edges bubbled. She folded the rice into the center, then the olette over it, shaping the whole thing with the spatula, pressing gently until it held.
She plated it. A soft yellow do, pale and smooth, the rice hidden inside. Then she took the ketchup bottle and drew a thin ribbon across the top—a wave, imperfect and deliberate.
She set the plate in front of him. Handed him a fork.
Franz stared at it. His expression shifted—surprise first, then sothing softer. Recognition. She’d made him food. Omurice. The kind of al people made for soone they cared about. Sothing warm.
"When did you learn to make this?"
"College. Late nights. It’s easy." She poured herself a cup of tea from the kettle Aunt Estella had left on the warr. Sat across from him. "Eat."
He ate. His fork moved faster than she expected. He was hungrier than he’d let on.
While he ate, she told him. The three won outside Rochefort Group. The tail. The club. The booth with Sam and Audrey. Then Mira at the curtain. The n outside. Angelika fighting. The fans on the ground. Brent reaching for her shoulder and her knee finding his groin. Sam’s elbows. Mira’s takedown. The station. The charges.
Franz listened. His fork slowed as she talked. By the ti she finished, he’d set it down.
"It might happen again."
His voice was quiet. The plate between them was empty now, the ketchup ribbon gone.
"People followed you today. People who were just fans. Curious. Not dangerous." He looked up at her. "But whoever paid the Voss siblings is still out there. They know who you are. Where you work. Where you go. If soone else decides to approach you—soone who isn’t just curious—"
He didn’t finish.
Arianne reached across the table. Her hand covered his.
"We increase security. We avoid unnecessary encounters with strangers. We don’t engage with people we don’t know. That’s all we can do."
He was quiet for a mont. Then: "I’m sorry. For the inconvenience. For the fans. For all of it."
Arianne’s jaw tightened. Not at him. At the word.
"I’ve been thinking," he said. "Maybe I should end the contract early. After the second season wraps. Step back. Disappear from the public eye for a while."
"No."
He looked at her.
"You’re not doing that." Her voice was firm. "You have commitnts. Contracts. People who depend on you. You don’t throw that away because soone might recognize on the street."
"Your safety—"
"Is not sothing you have to manage by erasing yourself." She held his gaze. "I knew what I was getting into when I chose you. When I married you. I understood the consequences. I accepted them. Don’t take that choice away from by pretending you’re the only one who has to sacrifice."
The kitchen was quiet. The light over the stove humd.
Franz looked at her for a long mont. Then he nodded.
Arianne stood. Gathered their plates. She was tired, but steadier than she’d been an hour ago. So was he.
"Co on. We both need sleep."
He took the plates from her hands. Set them in the sink. Then he wrapped his arms around her—not checking for injuries this ti. Just holding.
She leaned into him. Her forehead against his chest, her hands flat on his back.
"You’re not an inconvenience," she said into his shirt.
He didn’t answer. But his arms tightened.
They went up together.
The twins’ door was still closed. Still no light. Lily would be asleep with Petal tucked under her arm. Leo with the whale against his chest and the nded Lion in the crook of his elbow. The house breathed around them, settling into its bones.
Franz stopped outside his room. Turned to look at her. Not asking. Just looking.
Arianne took his hand. Pulled him inside.
The lamp was still on from before. The bed still rumpled. The brown coat draped over the chair where he’d left it.
He looked at the bed. Then at her.
"Take a shower," he said. "Use my bathroom. I need to clean up in here first."
Arianne raised an eyebrow. "Clean up?"
"The sheets. The room. It’s been a long night. You’ll sleep better if it’s fresh."
She didn’t argue. She was still in the clothes she’d worn to the club—the sa clothes she’d fought in, sat in at the station, driven ho in. The exhaustion was settling into her skin.
She crossed to his bathroom. Closed the door. A mont later, he heard the water start.
Franz stripped the bed. The sheets that had held them last night, that still slled faintly of her. He pulled fresh ones from the closet—dark gray, soft from washing. He shook them out across the mattress, tucking the corners, smoothing the wrinkles. The pillowcases next. The blanket last. He worked quickly, thodically, the way he did everything.
When he was done, the bed looked new. Clean. Waiting.
He sat on the edge of it. Ran a hand through his hair. The water was still running in the bathroom. Steam curled under the door.
He stood. Unbuttoned his shirt—the sa one she’d buttoned for him that morning. Let it fall. Walked to the bathroom door and opened it.
The stall was glass, fogged with steam. Her silhouette moved behind it—the curve of her shoulder, the dark shape of her hair wet against her back.
He stepped inside.
The water was hot. It ran over his shoulders, his chest, the scar near his shoulder blade. Arianne turned. Water stread down her face, her throat, the planes of her stomach. She didn’t speak. She didn’t startle.
His arms wound around her from behind. His chest pressed against her back. His mouth found the curve where her neck t her shoulder—not kissing, just resting there. The water fell over both of them.
She leaned back into him. Her hands covered his where they rested on her stomach. The steam rose around them.
The night washed off them both. The fight. The station. The fear. The long hours of not knowing. It all ran down the drain with the water, and what was left was just the two of them, standing together in the heat, her head against his shoulder, his arms around her.
They stayed like that until the water began to cool.
User Comments
0 comments from readers