Emma
On the fifth morning, I’d almost stopped jumping when I opened my door and found Lucian waiting.
Almost.
“Ready to come down for breakfast?” he asked, like we didn’t both already know the answer.
“Depends,” I said, letting it come out a little teasing. “Are you offering breakfast in bed? Because that might change my plans.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Not today,” he said. “Come on.”
We walked the now-familiar route together: down the endless stairs, through the warm corridors strung with garlands and lights, past people who bowed their heads to him and offered me easy smiles and “morning, Emma” like I’d always been here.
Breakfast passed in a blur of noise and warmth—kids whining for more syrup, elders arguing about which decade had the worst snowstorms, Kieran loudly in
