He came home late the next morning. Ziva was already in the kitchen, wearing normal clothes. The ruined silver dress was in a trash bag at the back of her closet. She was making tea, her movements slow and deliberate. The bracelet circled her wrist, a cold reminder.
Lucien stood in the doorway. He looked tired. He ran a hand through his hair.
"About last night," he began. His voice was careful.
Ziva did not turn around. She watched the steam rise from her mug.
"You know I had to comfort her," he said. He took a step into the room. "Sasha was hysterical. She was so upset about the accident. She felt terrible."
Ziva poured milk into her tea. She stirred it slowly. The spoon made a soft clinking sound against the ceramic.
"You're stronger than that," he continued. He came to stand besid
