Sunlight filters through the tall, lead-paned windows, catching dust motes in the air. The long mahogany table is set for one, then two, then many, with polished silver and crisp white linen.

You are already there, seated in your usual spot. The oversized, charcoal-gray hoodie you’re wearing is soft from years of wear, the cuffs frayed. It smells faintly of detergent and something else, something distinctly him.

Damian enters a few minutes later, dressed in dark trousers and a simple black t-shirt, his hair still damp from a shower. He doesn’t look at you as he takes the seat to your immediate right, his own habitual place.

The silence is comfortable, punctuated only by the soft clink of porcelain and the distant hum of the city waking up beyond the manor grounds.