Arianne woke to an empty bed.
The sheets beside her were still warm. She shifted and felt it—the ache in her thighs, the sore spot on her hip where the mattress had pressed. Good ache. The kind that came after being touched, after letting someone else's hands carry her. Last night's tiredness had settled into something softer. Rest. Real rest.
She turned her head.
Franz was across the room. Back to her. The span of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the way his spine moved as he reached for something on the dresser. Trousers low on his hips. Shirt hanging open, unbuttoned, tails brushing his thighs. He hadn't noticed she was awake.
She watched him reach for his watch. The leather strap dangling. Muscles shifting in his back.
Then her eyes found the scar.
Near his left shoulder blade. Pale now, healed. A raised line where the skin had knitted itself back together. The accident on set months ago—the one that sent him home with his arm in a sling. The only mark on him.
