The soup and bread were long gone, the dishes stacked neatly by Alma hours ago, but the penthouse still hummed with quiet energy. Neither of them had gone to bed.
Sophia curled into the corner of the sofa, legs tucked under her, absently scrolling through her phone but not really seeing the screen. Every now and then she’d glance up at Nate across from her, stretched out in his armchair, tie gone, shirt sleeves rolled, one ankle resting over his knee like he was trying to look relaxed. But his knuckles were tight around his glass, his jaw sharper than usual.
She sighed. “You’re doing that thing again.”
His eyes lifted. “What thing?”
“The storm-in-your-head-but-you’re-pretending-it’s-sunny thing.”
A corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he set the glas
