The new colored pencils lay in their tin case on Leo’s nightstand. Arranged by color. Cool blues and deep greens first, then the warm shades, then the neutrals. He had opened them twice since Franz brought them home—once to check the arrangement, once to show Lily, who had admired them sincerely before returning to her new dinosaur.

The dinosaur was purple. Stuffed, with small felt teeth and a tail that curled inward. Lily had named it Petal. She was not a child who named things carelessly.

Arianne pulled the covers to Lily’s chin. The dinosaur was tucked beside her, its felt teeth pressing into the pillow.

"Petal needs to breathe," Lily said.

Arianne adjusted the dinosaur. "Better?"

"Yes."

Leo was already under his covers, tablet on the nightstand beside the pencils, whale on his other pillow. He was watching Arianne with the quiet attention he gave everything. The way he watched adults test their shoulders.

"When can we have another trip?" Lily said. "A family one. Like before."

Arianne smoothed the blanket. "It might be a while. Your Uncle Franz starts filming again in a few weeks. The second season."

Lily’s frown was small but real. She understood. She didn’t like it, but she understood. That was Lily—she accepted outcomes she disagreed with without sustained protest.

Leo reached for his tablet. The screen lit his face in the dim room.

BEACH

Arianne looked at him.

"Beach?"

WHALES. IN PERSON. NOT PICTURES.

Lily sat up. Petal tumbled to the floor. She didn’t notice.

"Yes. Yes. The beach. We could see whales. Real ones. And the ocean. And there would be sand. We could build things. Leo wants to see whales. I want to see dolphins. Are there dolphins where whales are? Probably. They’re both in the ocean. We could—"

"Lily."

"—and maybe there’s a boat. Do boats go near whales? Is that allowed? I think it’s allowed if you’re careful. Leo would be careful. I would be careful. We could—"

"Lily."

She stopped. Her face was flushed with the effort of containing her own enthusiasm.

"Lie down."

She lay down. Arianne retrieved Petal from the floor and tucked the dinosaur back beside her.

"We don’t have plans for a beach trip yet," Arianne said. "But I’ll talk to your Uncle Franz."

Lily’s eyes were bright. "You’ll ask."

"I’ll ask."

Leo typed again. PROMISE

Arianne looked at the word. Single. All caps. The way Leo always wrote.

"Promise," she said.

Lily’s smile could have lit the room. She burrowed into her pillow, Petal crushed against her cheek, and closed her eyes. Leo set the tablet down and pulled his whale closer. His eyes stayed on Arianne for a moment longer—checking, confirming—and then closed.

Arianne sat on the edge of their bed until their breathing evened. Lily’s hand uncurled from Petal’s tail. Leo’s fingers loosened on the whale.

She stood. Crossed to the door. Paused at the threshold.

The room was full of things now. Lily’s drawings on the wall. Leo’s whiteboard. The new dinosaur. The new pencils. Objects that had not been there eight months ago. Objects that meant someone was paying attention.

She closed the door softly.

The sitting room downstairs was dim. One lamp on the side table, angled toward the sofa. Franz sat in the circle of its light, a stack of papers in his lap. The script.

He looked up when she entered. Set the pages on the coffee table.

"You’re still awake," she said.

"Waiting."

She crossed to him. He reached for her wrist—not pulling, just drawing her down beside him, her shoulder against his chest, her hip against his thigh. His arm settled around her. She let it.

"The twins want to see whales," she said.

Franz’s thumb moved once against her shoulder. "Whales."

"Leo. He wants to see them in person. At the beach. Lily wants dolphins. She had a lot to say about it."

"I can imagine."

"She asked when we could go. I told her not soon with your schedule."

Franz was quiet. She felt his chest rise and fall against her shoulder.

"I’ll ask Monica," he said. "Check the schedule. Next summer, maybe. A short trip. Between shoots."

"You don’t have to promise them something you can’t—"

"I know. I’ll ask Monica what’s possible. Then I’ll tell them what’s possible. Not before."

Arianne looked at the script on the coffee table. The pages were marked with sticky notes in two colors. His handwriting in the margins.

"Second season," she said.

"Starts filming in three weeks. Location work first, then studio."

"Are you ready?"

"I’m reading."

She turned her head. His face was close. The lamplight caught the edge of his jaw, the line of his mouth.

"I missed you last night," he said.

"I was at Sam’s."

"I know. I still missed you."

His hand moved from her shoulder to the back of her neck. His thumb found the place where her hair ended and her skin began.

"Stay tonight," he said. "My room."

She didn’t answer immediately. He waited.

"Yes."

His thumb moved again. Slow.

"Sam gave you something," he said. "At her party."

Arianne’s mouth curved. Not a smile. Something smaller. "She gave me several things."

"Show me."

"Which one?"

"The one you want me to see."

She held his gaze. "She said they were effective."

"Sam says a lot of things."

"She’s usually right."

Franz’s hand stilled on her neck. "Then wear one. Tonight. I’d like to see if she’s right about this too."

***

The bedroom was dim. Franz had left one light on—the small lamp on his side of the bed. He was propped against the headboard, a book open in his hands, but he wasn’t reading. His eyes lifted when the door opened.

Arianne stood in the doorway. The robe was deep purple, silk, tied at the waist. It fell to her knees.

"I thought you’d be reading," she said.

"I was waiting."

"You’re always waiting."

"For you. Yes."

She stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind her.

The robe was cool against her skin. Beneath it, the purple lace nightgown Sam had chosen. Bare back. Deep V. A thong that was barely a suggestion.

"Sam may have bought the wrong size," Arianne said.

Franz set the book aside. His eyes didn’t leave her.

"It’s—" She touched the strap at her shoulder. "Tight. In some places. Loose in others."

"Show me."

She untied the robe.

The silk slid from her shoulders. She caught it, folded it once, and laid it over the chair near the door. When she turned back, Franz had not moved.

The nightgown ended barely at her thighs. The lace cupped her breasts and plunged between them. The back was open—entirely open—the curve of her spine visible from neck to waist.

Franz said nothing.

Arianne crossed to the bed. The lamplight caught the lace, the skin beneath. She stopped at the edge of the mattress.

"Wrong size," she said.

Franz reached for her.

His hand closed around her wrist and pulled. She came forward, off balance, and he caught her—one arm around her waist, the other hand in her hair. His mouth found hers.

The kiss was not gentle. It was not patient. It was the kiss of a man who had been reading scripts all evening and thinking about her and waiting.

She made a sound against his mouth. He swallowed it.

He rolled them. Her back met the mattress. The bare skin of her spine pressed into the sheets. His weight settled over her—not crushing, but present. Solid. His hand found the strap of the nightgown and pulled it down her shoulder. The lace gave.

"So much for the gift," she said.

"I’ll buy a new one."

His mouth moved to her throat. Her collarbone. The edge of the lace where it cupped her breast. His hand slid up her bare thigh, pushing the hem higher.

She arched into him.

The room filled with sound. Breathing. The rustle of lace discarded. The low groan he made when she pulled him closer. The way she gasped when his fingers found the place the nightgown didn’t cover—the place Sam had designed to be found.

He moved inside her. Slow at first. Then not.

She held his shoulders. His back. The nape of his neck where the hair was damp. He said her name once. Twice. The second time it broke.

She followed him over.

Afterward, he rolled onto his back and pulled her with him. Her head on his chest. His hand on her bare spine, tracing the line of it from neck to waist and back.

He laughed. Low. Quiet. His chest moved under her cheek.

"I need to thank Sam," he said.

"She’ll expect a gift."

"I’ll buy her something extravagant. Something she can’t refuse."

"She can refuse anything."

"A vineyard, then. She likes wine."

Arianne didn’t answer. Her hand lay flat on his chest. She could feel his heart slowing. The warmth of his skin. The way his thumb kept moving on her spine, as if he couldn’t stop touching her now that he’d started.

"Effective," she said.

"What?"

"Sam. She was right."

Franz laughed again. Softer this time. His arm tightened around her.

"I’ll buy her two vineyards."

The lamp was still on. The purple lace lay in a heap on the floor. Outside, early spring pressed against the windows—wet and green and patient. Inside, Arianne closed her eyes and let herself be held.