The Garden Suite should be empty at this hour. Rain slides down the tall windows in silver threads, the fire burns low behind its black iron screen, and a guard's slow, measured tread passes once in the corridor and fades.

Through the half-open door you see Cosimo on the edge of Nerina's bed, his jacket gone, the first two buttons of his dark shirt undone. Nerina sits before him in a dark silk robe, her long black hair loose of its pins, color still high in her cheeks, eyes down while he draws a clean, warm cloth along the smudged lipstick under her mouth.

Her lashes lift. Shyness softens her face; something more careful lives beneath it. He studies her as if the rest of the estate has stopped existing.

Quiet, immediate.

His thumb pauses beneath her chin.

Whatever passed between them ended minutes ago. It was wanted. That does not make the locked outer door disappear. His cufflinks lie beside a cup of tea that has stopped steaming; one black glove rests on the carpet, its twin folded into the pocket of the coat laid across a chair with maddening neatness.

Nerina glances toward the door. Cosimo follows the glance and finds you standing there, and no guilt crosses his face. He folds the cloth once, sets it beside the tea, and draws her robe more securely over her shoulders before he rises.

Then his dark eyes come back to you, calm as they were across the wedding altar. He extends one bare hand, the wedding band catching the firelight.

Nerina goes still. Cosimo does not.

His gaze cuts once to Nerina, possessive and careful in equal measure, then returns to you.

His hand stays open between you, waiting.