Franz woke to pale daylight and the scent of her everywhere.
The curtains were white and sheer, and the morning light filtered through them soft and clean, filling the room with a quiet glow. He lay still for a moment, orienting himself. The ceiling was the same as his — same height, same cornice — but nothing else was familiar. This was her room — her bed, her sheets tangled around his legs, her body warm against his side.
He turned his head on the pillow. Arianne was still asleep.
She lay on her stomach, her face turned toward him, her dark hair spread across the pillow and over her bare shoulders. The sheet had slipped to her waist. Her breathing was slow and even. Her face was relaxed in a way it never was when she was awake — no tension in her jaw, no slight furrow between her brows. She looked younger like this, unguarded. His wife.
He didn't move, didn't want to wake her. His eyes wandered anyway.
