Aria barely slept. She lay on the couch in the guest suite, lights off, letter in hand. She hadn't moved in hours. Her limbs ached from stillness. Her thoughts raced.
She kept rereading the note, half-convinced it would vanish if she blinked too long.
Amara was dead.
She saw the body. She signed the death certificate. She mourned.
And yet.
The knock came just after dawn.
Three soft raps, then the door cracked open without her answer.
"Aria?"
Of course. Him.
Xander stepped inside like a ghost who belonged here. He was dressed in a dark hoodie and loose sweatpants—disheveled, casual, somehow realer than she'd ever seen him.
"You're up early," he said.
"You too," she said without looking.
He glanced at the paper clutched in her hand. "Something happen?"
She tucked it under a pillow. "Nothing important."
Xander watched her for a beat longer. Then crossed the room slowly.
"I know that look," he said. "You used to wear it when your father's name showed up in the news."
"That was a lifetime ago," she muttered.
"Not long enough."
Silence stretched between them.
He sat on the armrest of the couch. Not touching her. But close enough that she could smell his cologne. Sandalwood. Smoke. Like winter in a bottle.
"You can talk to me," he said quietly.
She turned to him, jaw tight. "That's rich, coming from the man who talks in half-truths and vanishing acts."
His brows pulled together. "I haven't—"
"Don't," she cut in. "Don't lie. Not about her."
Something flickered in his expression. Real pain. Real guilt.
"I didn't hurt Amara," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
"I never said you did."
"But you think it."
She didn't answer.
And that silence?
It filled the room like ice water, creeping into every crack.