Monday morning. Suitcases in the foyer.
Franz woke before six to the cold pressing through the curtains — gray and thin, the kind of light that hadn't decided to be morning yet. Arianne was against him. Her hand flat over his chest, palm warm, the weight of it keeping him there more than the blankets did. Her breathing moved slow and even against his side. She hadn't moved at all.
He lay there with the cold at the curtains and the warmth of her hand and didn't reach for his phone.
She'd come to his room Sunday night. The same way she had Friday — door in the dark, no knock, her footsteps crossing the floor until she reached his side of the bed. He'd been awake both times. Both times he'd put his arm around her without a word. Both times her hand had found the same place over his heart, like it had somewhere specific to be, and she'd been asleep in minutes.
