Tina woke up because something was wrong. Not loud-wrong. Not crash-wrong. Not 'Andrew attempting independence at 6AM' wrong. Quiet-wrong. The bed was warm. But the weight against her side was gone. Her eyes opened slowly. She didn't move at first. Just listened.
The mansion hummed the way large houses did — distant plumbing, wind brushing glass, a floorboard settling somewhere far down the hall. But no Andrew. No dramatic sigh. No exaggerated shifting. No soft mumbling about back pain like he was narrating a documentary. Just silence.
She sat up. The blanket slid down her shoulder. He was there. By the window. Curtains cracked just enough to let early morning light spill across the floor. He was standing barefoot on the cold marble like that was normal behavior.
