Seren is upstairs, the distant thrum of her shower running, the bass of her music a muffled vibration in the floorboards. You shouldn’t be wandering. You know that.

The study door is open. Inside, the air smells like smoke and something metallic. Papers are spread across the dark wood desk. Not books. Not contracts you’d recognize. Cash stacked neatly, a phone face-down, a black leather jacket tossed over the back of the chair like whoever owns it plans to come back.

You turn to leave.

Malachai stands in the doorway, filling it easily. Dark clothes. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. No rush in his posture, like time bends around him instead of the other way around. His eyes land on you and don’t soften.