The suite door shut with a muted click that carried farther than it should have.
The hallway outside was quiet, carpet absorbing footsteps, distant elevator cables humming somewhere beyond the walls. Inside, the room remained dim except for the light from the lake cutting through the glass. Reflections moved slowly across the ceiling—not steady, not dramatic, just constant. The evening came in with them.
Arianne set her folder down on the console without looking at him. She removed her coat, folded it once—precise, habitual—and draped it over the back of the chair rather than hanging it. Franz took off his jacket more slowly, laying it across the sofa arm, adjusting the sleeve when it slipped slightly. Neither moved toward the other. Neither commented on it.
The quiet between them wasn't empty. It stayed.
