It happened over breakfast, of all the ordinary places, on a morning that had started exactly like a dozen others before it — coffee, quiet, Ezra humming some tune he never noticed himself repeating while he moved around the kitchen. Sunlight came in at a low, early angle through the tall windows, catching dust motes in the air above the counter, and for a moment, watching Ezra move unhurried between the stove and the cutting board, Lucien had allowed himself the simple, uncomplicated thought that this — exactly this, nothing more dramatic than a Tuesday morning — was the version of happiness he'd spent thirteen years convinced he wasn't allowed...