Meanwhile, across town, Eliot sat stiffly at Austin's dinner table, watching as she moved with quiet efficiency around the kitchen.
The apartment, a three-bedroom penthouse with clean lines and warm lighting, was modest compared to the Blair mansion—but it felt lived-in. Real. Like people actually laughed here. Argued. Hugged.
It felt more like home than his father's marble-and-glass museum ever had.
"Leo, can you help set the table? " Austin asked, stirring something on the stove that filled the space with a mouthwatering, herb-rich aroma.
Eliot froze for a second, then remembered who he was supposed to be.
He stood, walked to the cabinet—the same one he'd seen Milo use earlier—and carefully pulled out four plates.
"Thanks, honey," Austin said with a warm smile over he
