She found him in the library at eleven o'clock on a Friday night, which was not something she had anticipated.
She had been unable to sleep again — not from anxiety this time but from the restless alertness that came after a productive day when her mind refused to stop moving. She had finished three illustrations for the publishing house, revised two more, and sent off a query for a new contract she had been considering. By ten she was done with work but not done with being awake, and she had come to the library because it was the room in the penthouse that felt most genuinely settled, most like a place where being alone was a comfortable state rather than a conspicuous one.
She pushed the door open and he was there.
He was seated in the far chair, the one she had claimed as her own ove
