Morning light filled the kitchen in long pale bars.

I came downstairs later than usual, still wearing the soft robe I had found in the guest bathroom. Richard was already at the table with a newspaper and a cup of black coffee. He looked up as I entered, and his eyes moved over me in a slow, deliberate sweep—from my bare feet on the cool tile, up the length of my legs, over the loosely tied robe that gaped slightly at the chest—before settling on my face.

“Sleep well?” he asked. His voice was even, but something underneath it felt heavier than the day before.

“Well enough.”

He stood and...