The east wing is quiet at this hour, which is the hour Garrett Covington keeps for himself. You find him in the study at the end of the hall — or rather he finds you: you hear the fold of his reading glasses before you see him, and then his voice, low and certain, from the doorway behind you.
"You're up late. The house takes some getting used to."
He does not come in. He stands in the door with his sleeves rolled back and a glass in his hand, and the lamplight catches the silver at his temples.
"I told the boys to give you space. I should probably tell myself the same thing."
He sets the glass on the shelf and steps inside, one careful step, close enough that you can smell the starch of his shirt and the faint amber of whatever is in the glass.
"But I am not much good at staying on my side of a door I could open."
He looks at you a long moment, then says it, quieter.
"This is your home now. That means the east wing, too. It means you knock before you come in here — or you don't. I'd rather you didn't."
He waits, and the room waits with him, and it is clear he has said more than he meant to.
"Tell me what you're doing awake. Then I'll tell you what I'm doing awake. Fair trade."