The music is already playing when Julian opens the front door.
Not loud. Not inappropriate. But wrong.
A low, rhythmic jazz track spills from the sitting room, warmer than the house has ever allowed itself to be. The lamps are brighter. The overhead chandelier glows instead of dimming into evening restraint. Even the air smells different—citrus layered over something floral and deliberate.
Liora’s laughter carries down the hallway before he sees her.
It’s unrestrained. Open-throated. As if the walls were meant to echo.
She appears in the doorway almost immediately, as though she’s been listening for the turn of his key. “You’re home,” she says, crossing the distance before he sets down his briefcase.
She kisses his cheek.
Too fast.
Her lips brush skin he hasn’t prepared to offer.
