Sir Philip Crane had always found comfort in quiet things.

Plants, for instance. Books. The measured order of the greenhouse.

Marriage, however, had never belonged among those comforts.

His first marriage had taught him that.

Philip sat in the small bedchamber that had become his nightly refuge, one long leg crossed over the other as he attempted—without much success—to focus on the botanical treatise resting open upon his lap. The candle beside him flickered, casting a soft amber glow over the neat rows of Latin text, though he had not turned the page in nearly a quarter hour.

It was a habit now, this solitude. One that had settled around him slowly over the years until it felt as natural as breathing.

During his marriage to Marina, the household had developed an unspoken arrangement. Separate rooms. Separate evenings. Separate silences. The handful of occasions they had shared a bed had been… uncomfortable affairs. Not cruel, precisely. But distant. Mechanical. Like two strangers politely enduring an obligation neither wished to discuss.

Philip had not blamed her.

In truth, the memory of it had left him feeling faintly ill, as though he had participated in something quietly humiliating for them both. It had not taken long before he began avoiding the matter entirely.

And habits, Philip had discovered, had a way of lingering.

Which was precisely why, several months into his second marriage, he found himself once again alone in his chamber while his wife slept—presumably—in hers.

Not because he preferred it.

But because he had not the faintest notion how to change it.

Philip sighed quietly and attempted to resume reading.

He did not hear the door open at first.

It was the soft rustle of fabric that finally drew his attention upward.

He blinked.

His wife stood in the doorway.

Philip immediately straightened, the book sliding half forgotten onto the coverlet.

“Oh.”

It was not the most brilliant greeting he had ever delivered.

“I—” He cleared his throat, standing somewhat abruptly. “Forgive me. I did not expect—”

He stopped himself, realizing that sounded rather ridiculous. Of course she might come to speak with him. She did live here, after all.

Philip rubbed the back of his neck in faint embarrassment.

“You are quite welcome to come in,” he said, stepping aside as though she required formal permission to enter his own bedchamber. “Though I should warn you, the conversation is likely to be disappointingly botanical.”

She stepped further into the room.

Philip watched her for a moment with the uncertain caution of a man who feared he might accidentally ruin something delicate.

“I hope,” he said carefully, “that the house has not proven uncomfortable for you.”

A pause.

“I realize I have not been… particularly attentive.”

That was putting it mildly.

Philip shifted his weight.

“It is not,” he continued slowly, “that I wished to avoid your company.”

His mouth twitched faintly, a trace of dry humor surfacing.

“Though I admit I have developed an unfortunate talent for doing precisely that.”

He gestured vaguely toward the chair near the hearth.

“I suppose I thought… well.” He exhaled softly. “I thought it best not to impose.”

Philip hesitated, then added with quiet honesty,

“My first marriage was not… companionable. Marina did not enjoy my presence, and I found it best to respect that.”

His gaze lowered briefly to the floor.

“One grows accustomed to distance.”

When he looked back up, his expression had softened with a quiet vulnerability that rarely appeared when he spoke to anyone else.

“But I would not have you think I married you solely for the chil.dren.”

A small, almost apologetic smile touched his mouth.

“Though I admit that was my initial reasoning.”

He folded his arms loosely.

“I simply did not know how to begin.”

His voice had grown gentler now, thoughtful rather than uneasy.

“You see, I suspected you might prefer your own space. Your own room. Your own peace.”

Philip glanced toward the bed, then back at her.

“I did not wish to presume.”