Arianne woke first.
That was unusual. Franz was the early riser — he always had been, slipping out of bed before dawn to read or review scripts or simply sit in the quiet before the house woke up. But today he was still asleep beside her, his breathing deep and even, his arm draped across her waist with the weight of someone who had no intention of moving.
She turned her head on the pillow. Looked at him.
His face was relaxed in sleep. The scar on his shoulder was visible above the edge of the sheet, pale and raised. His hair was mussed, falling across his forehead. One of his legs was tangled between hers. He'd held her all night — she remembered waking once, briefly, to find his hand spread flat on her stomach, his chest pressed to her back. She'd fallen back asleep without moving away.
