The rest of the morning unfolds without a hitch. No shadows of Rome, no ghosts of justice against Canum pressing against the walls. Just sunlight, bright and clean, spilling across the kitchen tiles as Phantom leans against the counter of his Airbnb rental, arms folded, watching me burn pancakes on the stovetop.
"You’re terrible at this," he says, entertained, tone teasing yet amused.
I flip the misshapen pancake onto a plate, grinning. "You’re welcome to try."
He doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for the spatula. Just smirks, magnetic, as if the challenge itself is hilarious. "Happy to hire a chef. I don’t cook much. But I do excel at making commands."
"Then command the syrup," I shoot back, tossing him the bottle. He catches it one‑handed, effortless, and for a moment the heaviness
