Arianne woke first.

That was unusual. Franz was the early riser—he always had been, slipping out of bed before dawn to read or review scripts or simply sit in the quiet before the house woke up. But today he was still asleep beside her, his breathing deep and even, his arm draped across her waist with the weight of someone who had no intention of moving.

She turned her head on the pillow. Looked at him.

His face was relaxed in sleep. The scar on his shoulder was visible above the edge of the sheet, pale and raised. His hair was mussed, falling across his forehead. One of his legs was tangled between hers. He’d held her all night—she remembered waking once, briefly, to find his hand spread flat on her stomach, his chest pressed to her back. She’d fallen back asleep without moving away.

Their anniversary had been a week ago. The photoshoot. The portrait. The twins in their formal clothes. Franz had arranged everything. He’d given her a memory. A record. Proof that their family existed, that it would hang on the wall for everyone to see.

She’d given him nothing.

The realization arrived without drama. She simply registered it, the way she registered most things. He’d planned and prepared and asked for nothing in return, and she’d shown up—which he’d said was enough, which he’d said was everything—but it wasn’t. Not to her.

She could schedule something. A dinner. Just the two of them. Gio could arrange it. Before Franz left for filming, before the quarterly assessments consumed every spare hour.

She lifted his arm gently from her waist. He stirred but didn’t wake. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood.

Her knees quivered. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

She caught herself on the nightstand. A beat. The ache was familiar now—the deep, settled soreness that had become more frequent in the past week. She walked to the bathroom, her steps slightly unsteady, and closed the door behind her.

Her silk robe hung on the hook. She pulled it on, tied it loosely at the waist. The bathroom was still dim, only the soft light from the fixture above the mirror. She turned it on. Stared at her reflection.

The robe fell open slightly. Red marks on her shoulder. Her chest. Lower, where the robe covered. She traced one with her fingertip. It didn’t hurt. It was just there. Evidence.

They’d been making love more frequently these days. Franz’s initiative, though she hadn’t refused him. Not once. His filming schedule was about to start. The second season of The Second Cut. He’d be on set for weeks, leaving early and coming home late, sometimes not coming home at all if the shoot ran long. He was storing up, she understood. The way he stored up before any absence. But this felt different.

Since the anniversary. Since he’d stripped the wedding dress off her in this very room, his hands less patient than usual, his mouth more demanding. She’d let him. She’d wanted him to. But she’d noticed the shift—the roughness, the eagerness, the way he touched her now like he was trying to memorize her before he left.

She stared at the marks. The two toothbrushes in the cup beside the sink. Her face wash next to his shaving cream. Two towels on adjacent hooks. Two of everything. At some point he’d stopped pretending this was his bathroom and simply accepted it was theirs.

The door opened.

Franz walked in, yawning behind his hand. He was wearing only his sleep pants, his hair disheveled, his eyes still half-closed. He squinted at her through the morning light.

"You’re up early."

"I want to soak in the tub." She pulled the robe closed. "I have a lot of meetings today. Angelika Sinclair this afternoon."

He nodded. Ran a hand through his hair. Then he moved past her to the tub—turned on the water, tested the temperature with his wrist, added something from a dark bottle on the edge. He did this without asking. Without being asked. He knew she liked it hot but not scalding. He’d learned months ago, after the first time she’d slipped into a bath he’d drawn and said nothing about the temperature but stayed in for half the usual time. He’d adjusted after that. He always adjusted.

She brushed her teeth at the double sink. Watched him in the mirror. The efficient way he moved. The muscles in his back shifting as he bent over the tub. The steam beginning to curl upward.

"Done," he said. "Get in before it cools."

She finished rinsing. Dropped the robe onto the hook. Slipped into the water.

The heat swallowed her. Her muscles loosened. The ache from last night—and the night before, and the night before that—began to dissolve. She sank deeper, the water rising to her shoulders, and let her head rest against the edge of the tub.

Franz joined her a moment later. The tub was large enough for two—he’d had it replaced, or maybe it had always been this size and she’d just never shared it before him. He settled behind her, his legs bracketing hers, his chest against her back.

"Don’t do anything," she said. "Everything aches."

He kissed her shoulder. The same shoulder with the red marks. His lips were gentle, almost apologetic. "I’m sorry."

"You’re not."

A pause. "I’m a little sorry."

She didn’t dignify that with a response. But she leaned back against his chest. The water lapped gently at the edges of the tub. Steam curled upward. The bathroom was warm and quiet and theirs.

His hands rested on her stomach under the water.

She’d noticed the shift, she thought. A week ago, he’d stripped the wedding dress off her with an urgency she hadn’t expected. He’d been rougher since then. More eager. More insistent. Not unkind—Franz was never unkind—but hungry in a way he hadn’t been before. Something about the dress. Something about the photos. Something about making permanent what they’d started a year ago.

"Do you want a child that badly?"

The question came out before she’d planned it. Quiet. Direct. She didn’t open her eyes.

Franz didn’t answer right away. His hands stayed on her stomach. His breath was warm against her hair. When he spoke, his voice was low and steady, the voice of someone who’d thought about this before and was choosing his words with care.

"Having a child with you would be a bonus." He paused. "I’m content spending my entire life with just you. Just us. The twins. This. I don’t need more than this."

His thumb moved once, a slow stroke across her stomach.

"But a child of ours. Of both of us. That would be precious. Because it would be part of you. Part of me. Something we made together." He paused again. "Have you changed your mind?"

"No." The word came out steady. "I haven’t changed my mind. I still want it. Someday."

She opened her eyes. The water was very still.

"I just wish our child would never feel unwanted. Growing up. The way I did."

She didn’t list the reasons. She didn’t need to. A childhood spent understanding, in a hundred small ways, that she hadn’t been the child anyone wanted.

Franz’s arms tightened around her.

"That wouldn’t happen." His voice was firm. Not gentle now—certain. "Not to our child. Not ever."

"How do you know?"

"Because our child would be the product of us. Of what we built together. Of our love." The word didn’t make her flinch. It hadn’t for a while now. "They would be loved. And cherished. By both of us. Every single day and they would know it." His hand pressed flat against her stomach. "We’d make sure they knew it. From the moment they existed. From before then."

She didn’t answer. But her hand found his under the water. Her fingers interlaced with his. She held on.

They stayed in the tub until the water cooled. Then Franz rose first. Water sluiced off his shoulders, his chest, the scar near his shoulder blade. He stepped out onto the bath mat and turned, offering her his hand.

She took it. He pulled her up. Water streamed down her body, and he reached for a towel—wrapped it around her shoulders before reaching for his own. The gesture was automatic now. He’d been doing it for months. The first time he’d done it, she’d been surprised. Now she expected it. She’d come to expect a lot of things from him. Tenderness. Patience. The way he filled the bath before she asked.

"I forgot to give you something," she said. "For our anniversary. You arranged the photos. The twins. The studio. The portrait. I didn’t give you anything."

"You gave me the photos. You showed up."

"That’s not a gift."

"It was everything." He kissed her forehead. "But if you want to give me something else, I won’t argue."

"A dinner. Just us. No twins. No business."

"A date."

"Yes."

He smiled. The real one. The one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I’d like that."

"Good. I’ll have Gio schedule it."

"Before filming starts?"

"Before filming starts."

He kissed her forehead again. Then her mouth—brief, warm, the kind of kiss that promised more but didn’t demand it. She was still sore. He remembered. He always remembered.

The bathroom was warm with steam. The mirror was fogged. Two towels hung side by side on their hooks. The tub drained quietly behind them. Arianne wrapped the towel tighter around herself and began planning the day—meetings, Angelika, the dinner date, the child they might someday have.

Her knees still ached. Her shoulder still bore the marks of his mouth. The two toothbrushes stood side by side in their cup.

She was wanted. She was home.