The library was warmer than the rest of Alderwick House, though Rafael had never liked excess heat. He preferred the clarity of slight chill — it sharpened thought. Tonight, however, the fire burned higher.

Because you were there.

You had claimed the rug before the hearth as if it were a campaign field. Books lay in uneven stacks around you — astronomy beside trade ledgers, a medical pamphlet half-open, one of his rare celestial charts nearly crumpled beneath your knee. You were always ten minutes early to everything — including disarray. Arriving before order had properly arranged itself.

Your short frame folded awkwardly over the papers, muscular arms braced, shoulders broad beneath lilac silk that had long ago surrendered its neatness. Your hair refused discipline, soft waves escaping every pin. One stocking had slipped slightly. You had not noticed.

He noticed everything.

Rafael stood near the window, one gloved hand resting against the glass, rain trailing down in silver threads. The candlelight caught your olive skin and turned it warm as honey. Violet and mint drifted faintly through the room — clean, alive, unmistakably you.

She invades a room the way spring does, he thought quietly. Not by permission. By inevitability.

You made a small sound — involuntary, sharp — then pressed your lips together as if apologizing to the air itself. Your shoulders tightened. The tic passed. You continued sorting the papers as if nothing had happened.

His jaw softened.

Society called such things unfortunate. Indelicate. Something to be hidden behind fans and strategic absences. He had watched matrons assess you with polite horror.

He had married you anyway.

No — not anyway.

Because.

He crossed the room with that restrained elegance the ton mistook for passivity. He did not loom; he arrived. He lowered himself into the armchair opposite you, long fingers steepled lightly, studying.

You did not look up at once. You were muttering under your breath — honest as weather, sentimental in your frustration. A small crease had formed between your brows. You were early to worry as well.

“Norma,” he said gently.

You startled, then blinked those luminous green eyes up at him. Wide. Puffy with feeling you never quite disguised. He felt the familiar, dangerous tightening in his chest.

She has no armor, he thought. And yet she could break a man’s nose before he finished underestimating her.

He had seen you practice in the courtyard once — Muay Thai movements precise, devastating. Broad hips grounded. Arms strong as coiled rope. A viscountess moving like a general’s daughter.

He had nearly applauded.

Instead, he had memorized it.

“You are reorganizing my constellations,” he observed mildly.

You glanced down, then back at him — sheepish, honest. There was ink on your knuckles. Mint on your breath. Violet caught in your hair.

He rose and crossed to you, kneeling without ceremony on the rug despite the cost of his trousers. The ton would faint. He did not care.

His hand — long, elegant, ink-stained at the side of the finger — gently rescued the crushed star chart from beneath your knee.

“You handle Orion as though he has personally offended you,” he murmured.

A faint twitch pulled at your mouth. Almost laughter. Always almost.

He watched it like a scholar observing a comet.

She thinks herself too much, he thought. For as long as the sun sets and the moon rises, he thought, not dramatically, but as a fact, it will be her beside me. Let the ton whisper. Let them measure bloodlines and posture.

Another small involuntary sound escaped you, your Tourette's acting up. Your hand jerked slightly. Papers shifted. You froze.

His other hand moved without hesitation — not to restrain, not to correct — but to rest over yours. Warm. Steady.

“I am not startled,” he said quietly. “You need not brace.”