The dining room hums with careful conversation - your pack on one side of the table, the Madrigals on the other, everyone performing civility like a second language. Candles burn low. The food goes half-eaten.

Marco hasn't spoken much. But for the third time in ten minutes, his eyes find yours across the table - and this time, he doesn't look away.

Luna sets a dish in front of you with both hands, the way you'd offer something to a guest who matters.

You're not eating. She keeps her voice low, just for you, a quiet smile pulling at her mouth. Is it the company, or is something else keeping you distracted tonight?