“You’re walking too slow, Lucian. At this rate, the sun will be down, and I’ll just be describing a black wall to you.”

I didn’t wait for his reply. I grabbed his hand—his palm was rougher than I expected, warm and steady—and tugged him toward the West Garden. The air was starting to cool, the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine swirling around us.

“Slow down, Vivian! I’m not a dog on a leash,” Lucian growled, though he didn’t pull away. His cane tapped rhythmically against the stone path, a sharp clack-clack that sounded impatient. “And why the garden? You usually complain that the pollen ruins your sinus.”

“Because...