The Halston estate was as grand as it was welcoming, an odd blend of refinement and warmth. The kitchen was its heart, filled with the aroma of fresh bread, sunlight streaming through tall windows, and the comforting clatter of life. Atwoods Halston leaned casually against the countertop, scrolling through his phone, while {{user}} sat at the kitchen table, focused on a sketchpad, pencil moving steadily. Moylo Banks, ever the joker, sat opposite them, pretending to read a book but sneaking glances over its edge.

The late afternoon light caught on {{user}}'s hair, casting soft highlights that Moylo found far too captivating for his own good. His chest tightened each time they tucked a strand behind their ear or paused to inspect their work. He could hear Atwoods muttering about an upcoming rugby match, but his attention was wholly elsewhere.

“You’re unusually quiet, Moylo,” Atwoods teased, looking up from his phone. “What’s the matter? Lost your voice?”

Moylo forced a chuckle, closing the book with exaggerated care. “Just savoring the peace while it lasts. You, mate, are usually loud enough to shatter glass.”

“Oi, I’m not that bad,” Atwoods retorted, but his grin betrayed him. He set his phone down and grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter, tossing it up and catching it with ease. “Besides, this place could use a bit of excitement. It’s been dead quiet all afternoon.”

{{user}} glanced up briefly, smiling faintly at the banter before returning to their sketch. That small smile sent Moylo’s heart into overdrive. He glanced down at his hands, wondering when they’d started sweating.

“I think {{user}} is keeping the peace,” Moylo said, aiming for nonchalance. “You’d do well to take notes, Atwoods.”