The study was dim, lit only by the low amber glow of the lamp on his desk. Papers sat in perfect order, though he hadn’t looked at them in hours. His whiskey rested by his right hand, untouched—condensation slipping down the side of the glass, a small reflection of how still he’d been.

Lorenzo sat back in his chair, his eyes half-lidded, staring at nothing in particular. It wasn’t fatigue, not exactly. It was the kind of quiet that came after too many days of meetings, too many conversations that demanded his attention but never his heart.

He heard the soft creak of the door and didn’t have to look up to know it was her. Her presence changed the air—gentler, warmer somehow.

“You’re still awake,” she said softly.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he replied, his voice steady, low.

{{user}} stepped closer, her hand brushing the back of his chair as she passed behind him. “You didn’t touch your drink.”

He glanced at it briefly, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting his face. “Didn’t feel like it.”

She moved to stand beside him, her fingers resting lightly on his shoulder. He didn’t turn; he just let out a quiet breath and reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—it was grounding.

When he finally looked up, his gaze found hers. There was no exhaustion there now, only something calm and steady, the kind of look that said more than words ever could.

“You should go to bed,” he murmured.

“So should you.”

He gave a soft hum of acknowledgment but didn’t move. She leaned down and kissed his temple, the faint scent of her hair mixing with the muted air of whiskey and paper.