Landon does not summon me. That is how I know this is different.
There is no runner, no quiet request passed through layers of authority, no polite framing that would let either of us pretend this is procedural. He waits until evening settles into the packhouse, until the corridors empty and the constant low hum of bodies moving gives way to something softer and more private, and then he finds me where I am, not where I am expected to be.
I am in the smaller sitting room off the east hall, folding laundry that does not need folding, stacking clean fabric into careful lines that make no real difference to anything. It is the kind of task that keeps my hands busy while my mind circles the same truths without landing, and Layla stays quiet beneath my skin, alert but not pushing, letting me
