“You look exhausted, Nathan,” I said, putting a hand on his chest.

The fabric of his shirt was damp from the mist outside.

“Why don’t you take a hot shower first? I can make you some tea.”

He paused, looking down at my hand.

“Tea sounds good,” he said.

“But skip the shower. Just bring it to the study.”

He turned and walked down the hallway toward the back of the house.

I stood in the dark kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil.

The blue flame of the gas stove flickered, casting long, jumping shadows on the cabinets.

I poured the hot water over a chamomile tea bag.

My hands were shaking so badly the mug rattled against the counter.

I carried the mug down the hall to his office.

The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm yellow light falling across the hardwood.

I pushed it open.

Nathan was sitting at his large mahogany desk, staring at a laptop screen.

The room smelled of old paper, leather, and the heavy cherry wood of the bookshelves.

“Here you go,” I whispered, setting the mug down.