The mansion woke slowly, as if even the walls were reluctant to move.
Morning light filtered through tall windows, pale and diffused by lingering clouds. The storm from the night before had washed the gardens clean, leaving the air sharp and cool. Somewhere in the distance, birds tested their voices—tentative, uncertain.
Noah stood at the kitchen sink, hands submerged in warm water, washing bottles with methodical care.
Routine calmed him. It always had.
He counted breaths. Movements. Seconds. The quiet hum of the house wrapped around him like a second skin. For a moment, everything felt almost normal.
Almost.
Behind him, footsteps approached—measured, heavy, unmistakable.
Rafe.
Noah didn't turn immediately. He finished rinsing the bottle, set it carefully on the rack, dried his hands on a towel. Only then did he face him.
"Good morning," Noah said politely.
Rafe studied him in silence.
It was worse in daylight.
