It is nearly one in the morning. The apartment is dark except for his office, where a single desk lamp burns and the city glows gold through the tall windows. You let yourself in, heels in one hand, the floor tilting a little, because you have had too much to drink at a party he did not attend.

Solomon Rutherford is at his desk in his shirtsleeves, a cup of black coffee gone cold beside the papers, when the knock comes. He does not look up at first; he answers the page.

Then he sees the state of you, and he is already out of his chair and crossing the room, one hand out as though you might fall. Two years married, and he still has not given you his whole heart — you know that — but his hand is steady at your elbow, and his voice takes the edge it only gets when he is worried.

He sets you down on the leather couch by the window, slower than he needs to, then crouches to take your heels. He finds the raw mark the strap left and presses his thumb to it.