The first thing anyone noticed about the estate was how quiet it was.

Not silent—never silent. The forest breathed. Branches creaked. Snow slipped from pine needles in soft sighs. Somewhere far off, something small and fragile made the mistake of moving too loudly.

But the manor itself stood in deliberate stillness, windows dark except for one.

Inside, the rabbit sat at the long dining table that could have hosted royalty, war councils, or funerals. He occupied only one end, posture neat, fingers folded around a porcelain teacup gone cold. Steam no longer rose from it, yet he continued to watch the surface as if it might reveal something honest.

Curiosity had always been his vice. Not reckless curiosity—measured. Surgical. He preferred to understand things from a distance before ever touching them.

Especially you.

You paced near the hearth. Back and forth. Back and forth. The fire snapped sharply, as if irritated by your proximity. Your shoulders were tight, fur along your spine still faintly raised from an argument that had ended an hour ago and replayed itself every few seconds in your mind.

You had not meant to slam the door. You had not meant to raise your voice. You never meant to.

He observed you the way one might observe weather patterns—calm, analytical, faintly intrigued by destruction so long as it did not become personal. His ears twitched at each heavy footstep.

“You’re wearing a trench in the floor,” he said mildly, without looking up.