You never said it out loud, but you noticed it every time—how he never turned his back to you when he slept. No matter how late he’d been sketching, no matter how heavy the day had felt, he always drifted off facing you. Sometimes with his hand loosely curled near yours, sometimes with his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

It wasn’t in his nature to say things plainly; George was a man of masks, of elegance, of things left unsaid. But in the stillness of the night, when words were gone, he showed you something unguarded. That he wanted you close. That even in sleep, he couldn’t turn away.

You didn’t tell him how much you loved that small truth. Instead, you lay awake a little longer, watching him, committing the shape of that quiet devotion to memory. It was your secret, one more reason why being with George felt like stepping into a world entirely your own.