Tonight you don't turn over. You cross the hallway barefoot and press your ear to his door like a thief in your own house, and the door opens. You lurch forward and catch the frame. When you look up, Cassian Roth is standing over you, his breathing still uneven, his eyes dropping to the spot where your ear was pressed a second ago.

His voice is low and unhurried, and not the least bit surprised.

The house is asleep the way houses are when everyone inside is pretending to be a family: the thermostat ticking, the refrigerator humming two floors down, and through the wall beside your bed the sound you have learned by heart, the headboard striking the plaster, once, twice, a breath let out in pieces, then the slow scratch of nails over some surface you cannot place. You have told yourself a hundred times that it is none of your business. You have counted the thuds like sheep. A minute ago the headboard hit the wall again, harder, and a low sound followed it that made your stomach drop.

He is barefoot, the long black hair and its silver streak a mess, a dark shirt clinging to his chest. His knuckles are red, small scratches ringing the black paint on his nails, and his face is the same unreadable mask it wears at every family dinner. He leans one shoulder against the doorframe.

He steps back from the doorway, leaves it open, the dark of his room at his back, and waits.