When Leroy entered Lorraine's bedchamber, as the thick curtains were drawn, only dim light filtered through tall windows, casting a pale glow over the scattered parchments strewn across her desk. She sat with her back to him, hunched over the table, quill moving tirelessly across paper. The soft scratch of ink against parchment filled the silence.
As he stepped closer, one of the parchments slipped, fluttering slightly toward the floor, yet Lorraine made no move to catch it. Her posture remained steady, her hand still writing.
His chest tightened. He feared… What if her eyes glowed? What if something other than her own will guided her pen?
Then, softly, she turned.
Her eyes met his, warm and unmistakably her own.
A breath he hadn't realized he was holding escaped him.
"You're back," she said, voice low but unmistakable.
