For a few moments neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the muted tick of the clock above the door and the faint hiss of the tea service cooling on the sideboard. Sunlight shifted slowly across the pale oak panels, warming the edges of the low table between them.
Caelan didn't reach for his cup or clear his throat. He simply sat back in his chair, one arm resting loosely along the armrest, the other on his knee, his posture a careful study in patience. His green eyes stayed on Lucas, steady but not pressing, the look of a man who had learned that silence could do more than questions.
Lucas felt the weight of it, not oppressive, but disorienting. In his first life the rooms had always been noisy: Christian's clipped orders, lawyers reciting clauses, the clatter of glass, Misty's lies and Ophelia's fake laugh. This stillness was stranger, harder to hold. His fingers flexed once against the armrest before he made them go still again.
