Madrid welcomed the morning with soft light. The first warm rays of early sunlight filtered through the window of the hotel's second-floor kitchenette, and the world around it stirred slowly, lazily awake. The room was still quiet, and only one person moved inside it: Lennox.
He had been up for a while. No alarm had gone off, no one had woken him—his body simply knew when it was time. And yet, something else had drawn him out of bed this morning. Something he couldn't quite name. Maybe... habit. Maybe awareness. Maybe that strange, quiet restlessness that had pulsed through him last night as he placed Sloane down for dinner.
Now he stood barefoot at the kitchen counter, wearing gray sweatpants and a navy blue shirt that stretched across his shoulder blades. Preparing breakfast wasn't rus
