Luciano didn't move to leave right away. He stood there with her for a moment, the morning light catching in the platinum-blonde waves of his hair, casting long, geometric shadows across the plush ivory carpet. The house was still hushed, caught in that fragile, early hour where the world feels suspended, as if it were holding its breath alongside them.
"Before we go down," he said softly, his voice a low vibration in the quiet. He wasn't looking at her at first; instead, his gaze was fixed on the rumpled landscape of the bed where they had spent the night. "We make the bed."
Eloise blinked, surprised—not by the words themselves, but by the tone. There was no command in it. No sharp edge of authority that usually colored his requests. Just a simple, inclusive "we," offered like an invitation into a shared ritual.
He reached for the sheets, his movements unhurried and almost reverent, as though this small, domestic act carried the weight of a sacred oath.
