The quiet hum of rain tapped against the windows of Luke’s room, a rhythm that matched the steady throb of pain still lingering in his chest. He was propped against pillows, pale but undeniably stronger than the days immediately after the shooting. His eyes tracked the ceiling for a while before shifting to the door, anticipating the inevitable arrival of the one person who never failed to visit.
Sure enough, the hinges gave a soft creak, and Lila stepped inside with her usual poise. She carried no tray of tea today, no reports, just herself, though the set of her shoulders suggested the weight of words she’d been holding onto all morning.
“You’re early,” Luke said, his lips curving faintly despite the weariness in his voice. “Couldn’t wait to lecture me again?”
Her eyes flicked to him,
