The restaurant was warm against the December cold.
A wreath hung on the door, and the windows were frosted at the edges, the city lights bleeding through in soft halos. Inside, the lighting was low and golden, the tables set with white cloths and small candles. The murmur of other diners was a comfortable hum beneath the clink of glasses and silverware.
Arianne and Franz arrived together. The maître d' recognized them — or recognized Franz, at least — and led them toward the back of the restaurant without asking for a name. They were halfway across the room when a young woman stood up from her table.
"Excuse me — Noah? Mr. Hart?"
She was young. Early twenties. Nervous in the way fans were when they weren't sure if they should approach. Her friend was still seated, phone half-raised, debating whether to take a picture.
Franz stopped. His expression shifted into the polite warmth he used for these moments — genuine enough to be kind, distant enough to be professional. "Yes?"
