The next morning, Catherine woke with a quiet sense of purpose, the kind that came from something simple and sincere. She turned slightly on the bed, reaching out instinctively, but the space beside her was empty.
Her brows drew together.
So he was already up.
A small part of her felt oddly dissatisfied. She had wanted to do something for him—something small, something domestic, something that belonged only to them. After everything he had done, she wanted to give him at least this.
She got up, dressed quickly, and stepped out of the room, still holding onto that intention.
But halfway down the stairs, she stopped.
Maximilian was walking up toward her, steady and composed, carrying a tray with a full breakfast laid out neatly, a cup of coffee steaming softly beside it.
She stared at him for a moment, then sighed, half amused and half defeated.
"I wanted to make breakfast for you," she said.
He smiled, that familiar, effortless smile that always seemed to disarm her.
