I knew Alexander hadn’t slept before he ever told me.
I could hear it in the way the house breathed the next morning, too alert, too controlled, like someone trying not to make a mistake by moving at all. The silence felt different. No longer neutral. It hovered, tense and watchful.
He was already dressed when I came into the kitchen, cufflinks fastened, posture immaculate. Too immaculate. Men who slept well didn’t polish themselves that carefully.
“Good morning,” he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek.
I let it happen.
That was important.
“Good morning.”
“You’re up early,” he added, casual, rehearsed.
“I have things to do.”
He nodded, accepting the answer too quickly. “Busy day?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. He smiled anyway. “Dinner tonight?”
I looked up from my coffee. “I have plans.
