Andrea woke to the soft gray light of a Chicago morning filtering through the tall windows of the penthouse. She lay there for a moment, listening to the distant hum of the city below, then slipped out of bed and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The marble floor was cool under her feet. She filled the coffee maker, measured the grounds, and stood with her hands on the counter while the machine hissed to life, the rich scent slowly filling the space.She needed the routine, needed something ordinary after yesterday.Henry came downstairs a few minutes later, half-dressed for work in charcoal trousers, white shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was still damp from the shower. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs when he saw her.“Morning,” he said, voice still rough with sleep.“Good morning.” He crossed into the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned against the counter opposite her. His eyes flicked to the couch–-the same spot where she’d sat last
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