Violette casually slid her commuter bag off her shoulder and shook off a few stray raindrops. She turned around to find Roman still rooted to the spot, completely motionless.

"Are you actually stunned?"

Since she’d walked in, Roman hadn’t managed to get more than a single word out—a breathless "You."

His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He didn’t even dare to blink, terrified that if he moved too quickly, this vision of her might pop like a soap bubble and vanish.

Violette.

Violette, who should have been at her desk in the newsroom in Deepwater.

Even though he already knew the answer, Roman rasped, his voice rough and uneven, "Why are you here? So suddenly?"

Violette raised an eyebrow. "And who was it that sounded so pathetic claiming they were sick?"

"What about your shift at the station?"

"I swapped with one of the others."

Violette’s gaze drifted to the mountain of documents scattered across the table. "You’re sick and you’re still working?"

Roman pressed his lips into a tight line. After a long silence, he finally found his voice. "I didn't plan on looking at them for long."

The room was stuffy. As they spoke, Violette pulled off her sweater, the static causing her hair to fly up in soft, frantic wisps. She pulled a box of throat lozenges from her bag and held it out. "Try these?"

Roman reached out. Instead of taking the lozenges, he smoothed her hair down. His fingers tangled in the dark silk of her hair, and with a sudden, forceful tug, he pulled her flush against his chest.

His voice resonated against her, a low, muffled rumble. "I still feel like I’m dreaming."

The crisp, woody scent of cedar and pine that clung to him flooded her senses. Violette hummed in agreement, looping her arms around his waist and kneading the muscles of his back with a rhythmic, steady pressure.

"I’ve already pinched you twice. Is the dream over yet?"

"No," Roman murmured against her hair. "Let me hold you a little longer."

It wasn't as if they’d been apart for months, but the weight of the moment felt heavy enough to anchor them in place. They stood in the living room, the plush carpet beneath their feet feeling like a cloud—a fragile, unreal foundation for a moment that didn't feel quite like reality.

When his hand brushed the bare skin of her neck, the coldness of her skin jolted him. Roman pulled back, his eyes scanning her frame. "I forgot—you were out in the rain. Go shower first."

The long flight had left her aching and tired; Violette didn't argue. She gave a simple nod and gathered her things. After a few steps, she paused and pointed toward the bedroom door. "I can use that, right?"

Roman almost laughed. "Do you honestly think I’m hiding something in there?"

Violette shrugged and walked in.

By the time she emerged from a hot shower, the chill had finally left her bones. She looked around the suite; Roman was exactly where she’d left him, though he had put on a pair of glasses. He was staring at the documents again, but the icy, detached aura radiating from him was stronger than before—perhaps the light, or perhaps the lenses.

Violette leaned against the doorframe, watching him for a long moment.

Roman finally looked up. "All finished?"

"You don't look like you're focused on work."

Violette was right. He had intended to finish the paperwork tonight, but since she’d arrived, he hadn’t turned a single page. His mind was a tangled knot of thoughts, and every single one of them led back to her. He had tracked the sound of her footsteps the moment she crossed the threshold, even through the sound-dampening carpet.

He hadn't looked up until now because… well, perhaps it was the human flaw of not cherishing what comes too easily.

He shoved the files to the side. "I had Alan prepare the room next door for you."

"Next door?" Violette’s brow furrowed. "Why would we stay apart?"

Roman tapped his throat with his knuckles. "I'm not sure if this is contagious."

"Well, that’s a shame," Violette said, completely unbothered. "I already used your rinsing cup. I suppose there’s no point in a quarantine now, is there?"

"..."

He didn't actually want her to leave; the whole thing was a half-hearted gesture. Violette was wrapped in a soft robe, while he still looked like a man who had just walked out of a high-stakes board meeting—fully suited, his tie still knotted tight.

Watching her, he felt like the one who had come to visit. He reached up and loosened his tie with one hand.

It was then that Violette stepped forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders to sit on his lap. Her movements were fluid; she straddled his legs, the high slit of her robe parting to reveal her knees.

Roman’s throat bobbed. He went rigid, his back stiffening instinctively.

Violette felt the tension in him immediately. She kept her hands on his shoulders, feeling the tremors in his muscles through the fabric of his suit. Even now, he spoke with that icy, aloof edge.

"It's contagious."

The warning would have been more convincing if his skin didn't feel like it was burning against hers.

Violette watched him in silence for a while. Once she had gathered her thoughts, she spoke, her voice low. "Roman."

Roman knew she was ready to talk. His muscles locked again. If it weren't for the faint hum of traffic outside, he might have heard his own erratic heartbeat. She hadn’t traveled all this way just to play house—she had things to say.

Was it about Blake Pierce? Had she gone soft?

Roman lowered his gaze, his grip on her waist tightening until his knuckles turned white.

Violette pried his fingers open, one by one, and interlaced her own with his, filling the gaps. When their palms were pressed firmly together, she looked him dead in the eye. "You went to the open house at Kaisen’s school. Didn't you?"

He hadn't expected that. Roman’s gaze snapped up to meet hers.

For a heartbeat, he wondered if his previous warning had provoked Blake, sending the man running to Violette to force a choice between a new flame and an old ghost. But then, a colder logic settled in: Blake really was still stalking her.

Feeling the heat radiating between their palms, Roman felt like he was the one suffering from a fever. He nodded. "I did."

"So you know everything," she stated, her tone devoid of doubt.

Roman didn't deny it. "Yes."

"Then what was your game plan?"

Sitting on his lap, Violette held the higher ground. She traced the sharp architecture of his brow with her eyes, lingering on the patch of skin near his hairline that had been cut. "It didn't happen by slamming into the bathroom mirror, did it?"

Roman remained silent.

"Did you fight?" she pressed.

Roman had lived a life of polished calculation. He’d never been caught in anything unseemly, and he certainly hadn’t been subjected to an interrogation like this. It was an irony that a formative, adolescent-style experience had returned to haunt him now, at the peak of his power.

Fighting.

The word felt alien, even grotesque, when applied to him. Roman turned his head away, his ears flushing a deep, embarrassed red.

He felt as though his throat was filled with sand. "…I didn't throw a punch."

Violette gasped, a sharp intake of breath. "You mean—you just sat there and let him beat you up?"

When she gasped, her legs tightened around him.

To admit defeat was pathetic, especially losing to a rival. Roman tightened his jaw. "I don't have the habit of solving my problems with my fists."

"I knew it. He’s losing his mind."

Violette narrowed her eyes. She sounded like she was defending him, but to Roman, it sounded like something else entirely—it was proof of just how well she understood Blake Pierce.

It was a truth he had accepted long before they’d ever married. But humans were inherently greedy creatures. Before, he’d wanted her; now that he had her, he wanted everything. He wanted to be the only one she understood.

How do you sate an ever-growing hunger?

Roman didn't know.

All he knew was that Violette was about to ask why he’d lied, why he’d hidden it, and why he’d pretended he’d just come home from the airport that day.

He let his shoulders slump and buried his face in the crook of her neck.

"I didn't mean to keep it from you. You saw how it went—I was at a disadvantage. I didn't have the standing to bring it up." He reached up, guiding her hand to the spot on his forehead that had already begun to heal. "It still hurts a little. Can you take another look?"