The Belle smelled like burnt firewood and lavender soap, a strange combination that Colin had stopped questioning weeks ago. Some old innkeeper's habit, probably.
Cedar in the hearths, dried lavender tucked into every linen closet like it could ward off more than moths. Tonight it felt almost deliberate, like the house itself was trying to soften something.
He'd been walking the halls since well before dawn, unable to settle. Sleep had never come easy to him even in quiet years.
Tonight, though, there was a restlessness under his skin that had nothing to do with old habits. And everything to do with the conversation he knew was coming. He'd felt it building for weeks — in the way Riley's shoulders had started to relax slightly whenever he walked into a room.
The way she'd stopped apologizing every time she needed something. Small things. Things that meant she was starting to believe she was allowed to stay.
