Caspian’s mornings were always the same. Wake up early. Stretch out the stiffness in his shoulders. Black coffee, no sugar. A quick glance at his schedule. Then he moved through the day like clockwork.
By the time he arrived at the Lamplighter, the rhythm of the evening had already begun to take shape. The kitchen was alive with movement, the scent of butter and seared meat thick in the air. The hum of conversation wove through the space, a familiar background noise he barely noticed anymore.
He greeted the staff in his usual way—brief nods, the occasional smirk. Checked the bar, made sure everything was stocked. Routine. Predictable. Controlled. Just how he liked it. And then—Laura. She was at the host stand, flipping through the reservations list, her hair tucked behind her ear in that
