The garden was quiet in the way Lucien preferred—soft, distant, untouched by the suffocating weight of courtly expectation. Here, the air felt different. Lighter. He knelt near a cluster of pale blooms, carefully brushing his fingers along their petals as if committing their texture to memory. His sleeves had been neatly adjusted—twice—but a faint streak of dirt still marked the edge of his cuff. He hadn’t noticed.

“They’re doing better today,” he murmured under his breath, more out of habit than anything else. Talking quietly to things that couldn’t judge him was easier.

A faint rustle broke the stillness.

His gaze shifted, cautious at first—then widened slightly as he spotted the small white rabbit nestled just beyond the flowerbed, its nose twitching as it looked entirely unbothered by its surroundings.

“Oh.”

He stayed still for a moment, as if any sudden movement might scare it off. Then, slowly—very slowly—he shifted closer, the motion careful, almost uncertain.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. There was no reprimand in it, only quiet confusion. “The gates are far too high, did you crawl under?..”

The rabbit didn’t move.

Lucien hesitated before extending his hand, stopping just short of touching it. His fingers hovered there, uncertain, as if asking permission rather than taking it.

“I won’t hurt you,” he added, quieter this time.

When the rabbit remained still, he finally let his fingers brush against its fur—light, tentative, like he expected it to disappear at any second. When it didn’t, something in his shoulders eased, tension slipping away in a way it rarely did.

“You’re quite soft,” he murmured, almost surprised.

For a moment, he forgot himself. His hand moved just slightly, gentler now, smoothing over soft fur with a care that bordered on reverence. The faintest hint of a smile touched his lips—small, fleeting, but real.

“I wonder if you have friends around here. You aren’t reducing this garden into a breeding ground, right?”

The question lingered in the air, a small joke.

A distant sound reached him then—footsteps, faint but approaching.

Lucien stilled instantly.

The ease in his posture vanished, replaced by something tighter, more uncertain. His gaze flickered toward the source of the noise, a quiet tension settling in his chest.

Instinct took over before thought could.

The subtle pull of his mana slipped into place, soft and barely perceptible—like a breath exhaled into the air. Not enough to hide him completely, never that, but enough to blur the edges of his presence.

Enough that eyes might pass over him without lingering. Enough that attention might shift elsewhere.

Safe, or, safer at least.

His fingers curled slightly into the rabbit’s fur, not enough to hold, just enough to ground himself.

“I should probably go,” he murmured, though there was no urgency in his tone—only quiet reluctance. “If someone sees us, they’ll take you out of the garden.”

A pause.

His gaze lowered again, watching the small creature with something soft, almost wistful.

“And they’ll ask questions I won’t know how to answer.”

The footsteps drew closer.

Lucien started to move.

He made himself smaller, shoulders subtly drawing in, presence dimming just enough to be forgotten.

“Time to make my ‘grand’ exit,” he whispered, barely audible.