Chapter 218: That Was Unfair
The lamp on the corner of the desk cast a narrow circle of light, leaving the board on the far wall in shadow. Arianne sat on the couch with reports spread across her lap, her eyes moving down a page she’d already read twice. The words weren’t landing. Her attention kept drifting to the space beside her—the cushion she’d left empty, the reports stacked to one side, a gap she hadn’t consciously made but hadn’t filled either.
She heard his footsteps before the door opened. The sound carried up the stairs, through the hallway, reaching her before he did. Her hand paused on the page. Her breath held for half a second. She didn’t look up—she made herself finish the line, mark where she stopped, let the paper settle. Then she lifted her head.
Franz stepped inside and closed the door behind him, his hand staying on the handle a moment longer than necessary. The tension in his shoulders didn’t release until the door was fully shut. Up here, he didn’t have to perform. She watched him let it go—the straightness of his spine easing, the careful set of his jaw softening, the version of himself he carried into rooms full of people falling away as he crossed into the space that belonged to them.
He crossed the room without looking at the desk or glancing at the board. His pace wasn’t fast or slow. It carried something between urgency and exhaustion—the particular weight of someone who had been holding himself together all day and was finally, finally somewhere he didn’t have to.
When he reached the couch, he didn’t stop to consider. He sat beside her, close enough that his shoulder brushed her arm. She felt the warmth of him before she felt the pressure. Her breath caught—just a fraction, just enough that she felt it. She didn’t move away. She watched him settle, watched his weight lean toward her, watched his eyes close for a moment before he moved again.
He exhaled once. Not sharp. Just enough to release something that had been held too long.
Then his body angled across the couch, one arm sliding along the back, his weight leaning toward her. Not asking. Not testing. Just assuming. He lowered himself, his head coming to rest against her lap.
Arianne stilled. Not pulling away. Not reacting quickly. Just stopping.
The report in her hand lowered. Her fingers adjusted to keep the pages from bending against his shoulder. She looked down at him, her gaze settling without hesitation. His eyes were closed. His breathing was slow, deliberate, the kind of slow that required effort. He was tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
His weight pressed against her. The solid warmth of him. The way his body fit into the space she’d left. Her breath changed—deeper, slower. Something in her chest that she hadn’t known was tight started to ease.
He came here. Not to the bedroom. Not to his own space. Here. To her. To the silence she was holding.
Her hand moved. Not slow, not deliberate enough to be noticed as a decision. It just happened. Her fingers found his hair and settled there. The texture of it, the way it moved under her hand. Arianne had touched him before—his hand, his shoulder, his face—but this was different. This was him in her lap, his head against her thigh, her fingers in his hair. This was intimacy she hadn’t let herself want because wanting it meant admitting how much she’d been holding back.
"Are you alright?"
Franz didn’t open his eyes fully. His expression didn’t change, but the tension along his jaw held—faint, present. A line of resistance he hadn’t been able to let go.
"The workload doesn’t reduce." His voice was low, even, tired in a way that didn’t ask for anything. "I finish one set, another replaces it. It doesn’t matter how much I clear."
Arianne moved the report, freeing one hand without disturbing him. "You’ve been away for five months. It doesn’t disappear on its own."
He exhaled again, longer this time. "That doesn’t make it easier."
"It makes it expected."
He didn’t argue. She could feel the argument in him—the desire to push back, to say that expectation didn’t make it lighter—but he let it go. His jaw loosened under her fingers.
Her hand lifted. Her fingers moved upward, finding his brow, his closed lids, settling across his eyes. Shielding them from the light. Franz stilled beneath the touch—not resisting, not adjusting, just registering. She could feel the faint flutter of his lashes against her palm, the warmth of his skin.
Arianne leaned down. Her lips touched his forehead. Brief. The skin there, the faint salt of him, the way his breath changed when she made contact. Then she straightened, her hand remaining, fingers still resting against his brow.
For a moment, Franz didn’t move. His breathing had changed—shallower, faster. She could feel it under her hand, in the rise and fall of his chest.
"That was unfair." His voice had changed. The edge of his earlier tension had eased just enough to leave something underneath. Something that had been there all along, waiting. "You should have warned me."
Arianne didn’t answer. Her thumb rested near his temple. She could feel his pulse there—faster than before. The corner of her mouth curved. Small. Brief. She didn’t pull her hand away.
He opened his eyes. He looked up at her for a long moment—long enough that she felt the weight of it, long enough that something passed between them that didn’t need words. Then he moved.
He pushed himself up from where he had been lying, his body moving, his hand finding the couch beside her hip to brace himself. He rose slowly, deliberately, until they were face to face. The space between them closed. She could see the color in his cheeks, the unevenness of his breathing, the way his eyes moved across her face like he was looking for permission.
His hand came up. His fingers brushed her jaw. Light. Testing. His skin was warm, slightly rough, the calluses from years of guitar pressing against the soft skin beneath her ear.
"You kissed me," he said, low. "Now I want one."
Arianne’s breath held. Her eyes moved across his face—looking for something. Fear? Hesitation? The thing that had made him hold back for months, the voice that said this was too much, too close, too dangerous to want? She didn’t find it. She found him. Waiting. Wanting. Letting her decide.
His fingers were still on her jaw. She could feel the tremor in them. After so many years, after eight months of marriage, after all the times she’d held back—Franz was nervous. She hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t expected to be the one who wasn’t.
She leaned in.
The first contact was soft. Her lips against his, a question more than an answer. She felt him exhale against her mouth, felt the tension in his shoulders release. Then his hand slid into her hair, and the kiss changed.
It was not like the others. Not careful. Not brief. His fingers pressed against the back of her head, pulling her closer. Her hand moved into his hair, gripping, holding. His mouth moved under hers with a need that had been stored for years, waiting for permission she’d only just given. Her other hand found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the heat of him through the cotton, the rapid beat of his heart.
When they broke apart, neither of them moved far. Their foreheads touched. Their breathing was uneven, filling the space between them. She could feel his pulse under her palm—fast, faster than hers, which meant he was more affected than she’d let herself believe. After everything, after all the years, he was still this nervous. Still this affected. Still here.
She kissed him again. Quicker. A promise. Her lips pressing against his, a seal on something they’d both been waiting for. Then she pulled back, her hand staying on his chest for a moment longer before she let it fall.
"We should look," she said.
Franz nodded. But his hand didn’t leave hers. His fingers found hers, tangled, held. When she reached for the tablet on the side table, his grip was still there—not restraining, not directing. Just present. Just with her.
The tablet had been placed just out of direct light, within reach but not in focus. The screen was dark. Arianne picked it up, feeling the weight of it in her hand, then reached for the notebook beside it—Alex’s, the one she’d taken from his study. Franz’s attention moved to what she held, the space between them not distancing but turning toward shared direction.
She placed both on the table. The lamp’s light fell across them, defining their edges against the darker surface beneath.
For a moment, neither of them reached. She could feel his fingers still tangled with hers, the warmth of them, the steadiness.
"The twins opened it first," she said.
Franz’s hand tightened on hers. A small pressure, barely there, but she felt it.
"They accessed it. They wanted the pictures."
He exhaled quietly. "They know how to use it. They know the code."
"They know how to open it. They don’t know what they’re looking at."
A pause. She could feel him processing, turning it over. "Or maybe that’s all they want."
"Yes."
"You didn’t check it after?"
"Not yet."
That drew a reaction—subtle, but there. His fingers pressed against hers, once, before loosening. "You didn’t look."
Arianne didn’t answer.
Yes. She’d looked. After the twins went to bed. Her thumb had hovered over the gallery, the small icons of family photos, birthday parties, ordinary moments. She’d almost stopped there. Almost let that be enough. Then she’d moved past it. Deeper. Into whatever else Layla had left behind.
"That’s where we start," Franz said.
He leaned forward, his forearms resting against his thighs, his gaze fixed on the tablet. Arianne’s hand rested near it—not touching the screen, not activating it. Just there. She could feel his presence beside her, the weight of him, the warmth of his hand still loosely tangled with hers.
The room held. Still. Contained.
Her fingers moved, just enough to brush the edge of the tablet. The screen stayed dark. Waiting.
She looked at Franz. He was watching her hand, not reaching for it himself, letting her decide. His fingers were still tangled with hers, the warmth of them steady.
She turned back to the tablet. Her fingers found the edge.
She pressed the button.
The screen lit up.