Yvette had not left yet.
She was still near the door, one hand resting on the handle, and she turned back to look at Julian with an expression that was searching for something, an acknowledgment, a softening, some small signal that the door was not entirely closed.
She had known Julian a long time. She understood, or thought she understood, the particular way he felt responsibility for people. She was counting on it.
She found him looking at Amara.
Not at her. Not at the door. Not on the floor in the thoughtful way of a man working through a difficult moment.
He was looking at his wife's retreating figure with a smile on his face that had absolutely nothing diplomatic or performative about it. It was the smile of a man who was privately, deeply delighted, and could not quite contain it, and was not particularly trying to.
Yvette looked at that smile for a moment.
