The morning sun filtered through the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows of the Armitage Estate, not with its usual cold, piercing glare, but with a soft, honeyed hue that pooled on the hardwood floors. For a few stolen hours, the house had felt like a home rather than a fortress. The air still carried the faint, musky scent of the night's intimacy, a lingering warmth that defied the sharp, modern architecture.
Mild was in the kitchen, his movements quiet and deliberate as he brewed coffee, the aroma cutting through the stillness. Arm was seated at the marble island, dressed in a simple navy robe, watching Mild with that same wide-eyed, fascinated devotion. To Arm, every movement Mild made—the tilt of his head, the way his hands moved—was a miracle he was witnessing for the first time.
The peace didn't break; it was pierced.
