We return to the mansion around midday.

  I stop the car in the garage, and before the engine has even fully shut down, I already know Lorcan is waiting. I can feel him.

  Elena steps out first. She’s different. Determined. Comfortable clothes—hers. The dark necklace resting against her collarbone, discreet, real. Good.

  We enter the lobby, and there he is.

  My son stands near the staircase, trying to look casual—and failing. A fitted black shirt, untucked. Dark jeans. No plates, no gloves, nothing that screams weapon. Just Lorcan. Or as close as he knows how to be. I notice he’s still wearing his watch. Perhaps that was his compromise.

  They look at each other.

  Longer than necessary.

  Elena registers his presence first. Then Lorcan lifts his gaze. Their eyes meet, and both of them pause half a second too long.

  I smile.

  “We’re back,” I say, breaking the silence before either of them convinces themselves they should say something clever.

  Lorcan blinks, as if remembering the world still exists.

  “Good,” he says. “Everything alright?”

  Elena nods.

  “Yes,” she says.

  Nothing more.

  Neither of them adds anything else.

  Still, the air tightens enough that I could cut it with a fingernail.

  Excellent.

  I clear my throat.

  “I hope you enjoy yourselves,” I say, as if reminding them what they agreed to before either of them backs out. “Don’t come back late. Or do. Your problem.”

  Elena hesitates for a moment. Then she smiles—nervous, but genuine.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Elisabeth.”

  I incline my head slightly.

  “Enjoy your day.”

  I watch them walk down the hallway toward the garage. They don’t walk together—but they don’t walk apart either. There’s a precise distance between them.

  When I hear the garage door close, I head to the kitchen for a glass of wine.

  That’s when my phone buzzes.

  A message from my father.

  The Faith wants to talk. Pack your bags. We leave this afternoon.

  I exhale slowly.

  Of course. Today of all days. As if they had nothing better to do on a Sunday evening.

  I look out toward the horizon.

  “Have fun, kids,” I murmur to myself. “Mom will handle the rest.”

  We get in the car and leave the garage.

  Even the car feels normal today. Relaxed. Almost like its owner. One hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift.

  If I expected the “Kestrel experience” to start with something grandiose, I was wrong.

  “So,” I ask, “what does a Council weapon do on his day off?”

  “At this hour?” he replies. “Lunch. What are you in the mood for?”

  I don’t think about it for more than two seconds.

  “How about pasta?”

  “I know a place.”

  Knowing the destination, the car comes alive again. We don’t take long to arrive. It’s a restaurant in one of the most exclusive areas of the city. It doesn’t look overly elegant, but it’s certainly not cheap.

  The first thing that catches my attention is how naturally everyone interacts with Lorcan. It unsettles me more than when people stare.

  Out of habit, I order ravioli with parma rosa. Lorcan orders the same. They bring bread and complimentary wine almost immediately. Lorcan looks like a seasoned sommelier.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  He notices me watching him—and doesn’t look away right away.

  “Wine is really my mother’s thing,” he excuses himself. “But it comes with the service here, so you learn.”

  “And how do you know this place?”

  “Lunches and dinners with my mother’s clients. Diplomatic meetings. End-of-year dinners…”

  “Have you ever brought another girl here?”

  “No one has asked for the ‘Kestrel experience’ until now.”

  I laugh.

  Mostly because I know it’s his first date.

  The food finally arrives.

  And it’s incredible.

  I thought the campus ravioli were the best thing there was. I was wrong. These melt in my mouth, the sauce perfectly balanced between flavor, acidity, and sweetness. The campus ones had a homemade charm—but these are on a completely different level.

  Apparently my expression gives me away, because Lorcan smiles.

  “Don’t choke.”

  “I’m sure you have some trick for ravioli-induced asphyxiation.”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  We clean our plates. Empty our wine glasses. Time passes easily. Lorcan asks for the check with a gesture. The waiter approaches.

  “Do you want to go shopping?” Lorcan asks.

  I blink.

  “Do you need to buy something?”

  “I have something in mind. But I’m really asking if you want something.”

  “I can’t think of anything… and,” I shrug, “it’s still a few days until the end of the month.”

  Lorcan looks at me strangely as he pulls something from his wallet.

  “I never said you were paying.”

  He takes out a credit card I never imagined existed—completely black, with subtle gold detailing. He places it on the terminal. The payment goes through instantly. He doesn’t even wait to see the confirmation.

  “Shall we?” he says, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

  “Yes… let’s go.”

  We head to a shopping center. The place is quiet. Too quiet.

  Everything is bright, orderly, expensive without advertising it. Clothes spaced far apart, as if air itself had a price. Computers and phones on display, screens glowing.

  I stop for barely a second in front of one of them. No more than that—because every time I do, I can feel Lorcan moving closer, card in hand.

  His ease makes me uncomfortable. I know he’s filthy rich. But there are limits.

  I get distracted for a moment and see him admiring a car on display in the central atrium. He looks like a child who’s just seen a new toy. I recognize the model even without knowing much about cars. It’s like his—but a newer version, according to the sign.

  “If you behave,” I say, laughing, “I’ll buy you one.”

  “Don’t worry,” he replies. “I wouldn’t trade my beast for anything.”

  We keep walking, window-shopping. I can’t help feeling out of place.

  I stop by a display with a light, beautiful dress. Once again, I can feel Lorcan about to reach for the card.

  I sigh.

  “You don’t have to buy me anything,” I say quickly. “Really. We’re just looking.”

  He glances at me.

  “I know.”

  “Then why—?”

  “If you like something, we buy it.”

  I cross my arms.

  “That’s exactly the problem.”

  He studies the dress a second longer than necessary.

  “It's the price?” he asks.

  “Everything,” I answer. “How easy it is for you.”

  Lorcan takes his time replying. He doesn’t tense up. He doesn’t get offended. He sits on a bench.

  “Elena, if I don’t look at prices, it’s because I don’t need to.”

  “That doesn’t help…”

  I sit beside him.

  “I started working for the Council when I was fourteen.”

  “What?”

  “Low-risk missions at first,” he continues. “Recon. Containment. Cleanup. They weren’t… pleasant.”

  I blink.

  “That doesn’t sound like work for a fourteen-year-old.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  I say nothing. I try to imagine him there—younger—facing things that terrified me just days ago.

  I remember his expression on the hill. Someone who had already seen too much.

  “My fortune,” he says, “comes from walking out of places others didn’t.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “I invest it well,” he adds. “That’s why I don’t mind spending it. Whether it’s buying a car, eating at an expensive restaurant, or buying something for someone who—”

  He stops. Doesn’t finish the sentence.

  I don’t breathe.

  I shrug slightly.

  “If you put it like that,” I say softly, “I wouldn’t mind one thing. Something small.”

  His lips curve just a little.

  “That sounds fair.”

  I step toward the dress and pick it up. I feel him behind me.

  “Just this,” I say.

  “Just this,” he repeats.

  We leave the shopping center hours later, with more bags than necessary. Thankfully, Lorcan’s car has plenty of storage space.

  “Sorry, Lorcan…” I say. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Don’t worry,” he replies. “The cashback covers almost a third.”

  He drives a bit longer. We talk about nothing. About everything. Small things. It feels strange hearing him talk about things like his favorite color or whether he ever had pets.

  He’d be a great guest on the podcast.

  That’s when I notice the road looks familiar.

  “Lorcan…?” I ask. “Why are we going to campus?”

  “You’ll see,” he says. “Trust me.”

  We leave the city behind. The road narrows. Becomes uneven. Low trees, tall grass, a gentle slope I know far too well.

  “Here,” he says, stopping the car.

  We get out. No signs. No artificial lights. Just wind and open sky. The evening air is turning cold.

  He guides me. We don’t need to talk.

  I recognize where we are.

  The southern hill.

  Just in time for sunset.

  The lights on the horizon begin to turn on—including the Kestrel mansion in the distance.

  Lorcan sits on the grass. I follow, leaving a small distance between us.

  This is where everything began.

  No words are needed.

  The sunset is beautiful.

  The wind rises suddenly, pushing my hair into my face. I try to move it away—it falls back again. I frown, more annoyed than uncomfortable.

  Before I can try again, Lorcan leans toward me.

  Carefully.

  With far too much attention.

  His fingers brush my cheek as he tucks the stray strand away. He doesn’t touch me more than necessary—but his hand lingers, hovering, unsure where to go.

  I look up.

  Mistake.

  We’re too close.

  I can see those peculiar golden eyes calling to me. His breathing slows. Mine speeds up.

  The wind blows again, stronger this time, nudging me toward him. The hill tilts just enough. Gravity does the rest.

  For one second, everything aligns.

  My lips part slightly—without conscious permission. The distance between us is no longer measured in centimeters, but in decisions.

  And then—

  Lorcan looks away.

  Just slightly. A deliberate choice.

  He withdraws his hand. The air fills the space between us again. The cold takes longer to return.

  There's a flicker of disappointment.

  But I smile, anyway.

  I shift and rest my head against his shoulder, naturally—as if it had always been that way.

  He freezes for a second.

  Then relaxes.

  He doesn’t pull away.

  “Thank you for the ‘Kestrel experience,’” I murmur.

  “Thank you,” he replies, “for asking for it.”

  I close my eyes for a moment.

  “The sunset is beautiful,” I say. “Don’t block my view.”

  Lorcan laughs—genuinely.

  Nothing more is said.

  And still, it’s enough.

  I wrote it that way.