By nightfall, he had reached the edge of his patience with himself.
Sleep refused him again.
The fire in his room had burned low when he finally rose, pulling on his coat and stepping into the corridor. He did not know what he intended to do. Only that remaining in bed felt unbearable.
The kitchen was warm when he entered, the scent of herbs and steam lingering in the air.
Eleanor stood at the table.
She had changed into a simple gown, her hair loose down her back. A kettle steamed beside her, and she held a teacup in both hands as though it were an anchor.
They both froze.
“Oh,” she said softly.
James swallowed. “I did not expect anyone else.”
“Neither did I,” Eleanor replied.
Silence followed. Not hostile. Not welcoming. Just thick.
“Could you not sleep either?” James asked.
She nodded once. “I thought tea might help.”
He hesitated, then gestured toward the kettle. “May I?”
She inclined her head. “Of course.”
He poured himself a cup, the simple domesticity of the act grounding and disorienting all at once. They stood side by side without touching, the space between them charged.
“I am sorry,” James said at last.
Eleanor stiffened slightly. “For which part?”
“For all of it,” he replied.
She turned to look at him, clearly startled by the immediacy of it. “You are apologizing.”
“Yes.”
“For leaving me on the floor,” she said carefully. “For embarrassing me. Or for pretending not to see it?”
“All of it,” James repeated. “And for hurting you.”
Her brows knit. “You sound sincere.”
“I am,” he said quietly.
Eleanor studied his face as though searching for artifice. Whatever she found there made her shoulders loosen slightly.
“That is unexpected,” she admitted.
“I do not often apologize,” James said.
“No,” she agreed. “You do not.”
Another pause. This one softer.
