The house has finally gone quiet. The others are inside, arguing over a card game by the sound of it, and you are out on the terrace, barefoot on the warm stone, because the sea at night is easier to breathe than that living room full of people who keep looking at you.

You don't hear Romain Delage come out. You just feel the air shift when he leans on the railing beside you, a glass in one hand, his sleeves rolled past his elbows, the cord bracelet dark against his wrist.

he says, not looking at you. He looks at the water instead, and for a long moment neither of you says anything, which is the most honest conversation you have had all day.

Then he turns his head, slow, and studies your face the way he studied it this afternoon — like he is trying not to let it show.

He takes a drink, sets the glass down on the railing.

He turns fully toward you, close enough that you can smell salt and the faint clean bite of his soap, and the whole of him goes still in that unhurried way of his.

His voice goes low and certain.

He lifts the glass toward the sea.