The mansion had learned new rhythms.
Not the sharp, clipped movements of survival, not the whispered orders or midnight alarms—but softer things. Bottles warming. Footsteps pacing at dawn. A baby's laughter ricocheting down halls that once echoed with threats.
Still, Matthew trusted calm the way one trusts thin ice.
Carefully.
With eyes open.
He stood at the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard, coffee cooling in his hand, watching Noah kneel beside Elia's stroller. The baby gurgled, fascinated by the way Noah let the morning sun filter through his fingers, making shadows dance across the stone.
Vinny appeared behind him, arms slipping around his waist without a word.
"You're doing it again," Vinny murmured.
Matthew didn't look away. "Doing what?"
"Watching like you expect the house to blink."
Matthew huffed softly. "It always does."
Vinny rested his chin against Matthew's shoulder. "Noah's good. You know that."
