The argument about sleeping arrangements lasted exactly four minutes.

Which, according to Cassian, was apparently a personal record.

“You invoked Night Law,” Seraphina said for what was probably the sixth time while standing inside the sanctuary corridor with her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Without explaining what that actually means.”

Lucien unlocked the chamber door calmly.

“It means the council can’t touch you.”

“That is still not a real explanation.”

“It’s the useful part.”

Cassian leaned against the opposite wall eating grapes directly out of someone else’s kitchen bowl with the emotional investment of a man watching expensive theater.

“You’re both avoiding the more important issue,” he announced.

Seraphina narrowed her eyes.

“What issue?”

Cassian pointed dramatically toward the single chamber behind Lucien.

“You now technically share protected quarters under sanctuary law.”

Silence.

Seraphina looked at Lucien.

Lucien looked briefly inconvenienced by existence itself.

“That sounds fake,” she said finally.

“It unfortunately isn’t,” Cassian replied.

Lucien opened the chamber door before the conversation could deteriorate further.

“Inside.”

“That sounded threatening.”

“You’ve met me. Everything sounds threatening.”

Fair.

Annoyingly fair.

Cassian tossed another grape into his mouth before leaving.

“I’m emotionally invested now,” he called over one shoulder. “Try not to start any religious wars before breakfast.”

The chamber door shut behind them.

Seraphina stopped walking almost immediately afterward.

Not because the room was intimidating.

Because it wasn’t.

That somehow unsettled her more.

She expected ancient vampire luxury again.

Velvet.

Gold.

Aggressive gothic nonsense.

Instead the chamber looked almost painfully human.

Large bookshelves lined one wall beneath warm reading lamps. A half-finished chess game sat abandoned near the fireplace beside several medical texts and loose handwritten notes in at least four different languages.

One coat hung carelessly over the back of a chair.

A ceramic coffee cup rested near the windowsill.

Lived in.

Lucien’s room looked lived in.

The realization hit harder than it should have.

“You own books about infectious disease,” she observed quietly while scanning the shelves.

Lucien removed his gloves slowly near the fireplace.

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain unresolved trauma.”

“That too.”

Snow drifted softly beyond the tall sanctuary windows overlooking Vienna rooftops far above ground level. Somewhere outside, cathedral bells echoed faintly through the city.

The room smelled like old paper, smoke, and winter air.

And him.

Always him now.

Seraphina hated that she noticed.

“There’s only one bed,” she said eventually.

Lucien glanced toward the enormous bed near the far wall.

Then toward the couch.

“I’ll take the couch.”

“You’re like six-foot-three.”

“I don’t sleep.”

The answer arrived so casually that it took her a second to process.

“You literally never sleep?”

Lucien crossed toward the bookshelf while loosening the collar of his black shirt.

“Not naturally anymore.”

“That sounds horrifying.”

A faint expression crossed his face.

“Sometimes.”

Seraphina watched him quietly while he moved through the room.

There was something deeply strange about seeing Lucien here.

Not fighting.

Not threatening anyone.

Just existing.

One hand brushing absentmindedly across stacked books while snowlight softened the sharp edges of him into something almost peaceful.

Dangerous thought.

Very dangerous thought.

“You just stay awake forever?” she asked.

“I rest sometimes.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he agreed softly. “It isn’t.”

The room settled quieter afterward.

Seraphina set her weapons carefully beside the bedside table before sitting on the edge of the mattress. The sanctuary clothing someone left for her earlier hung loose and soft against her skin, while fresh bandages wrapped securely beneath the collar.

Lucien noticed her adjusting them immediately.

“You’re favoring the shoulder again.”

“You’re obsessed with my injuries.”

“You’re unusually committed to collecting them.”

She rolled her eyes.

Lucien’s mouth nearly curved again afterward.

God.

Those almost-smiles kept happening more now.

And every single one felt unfairly intimate.

Seraphina glanced toward the couch near the fireplace.

“You really don’t mind?”

“What?”

“The couch.”

Lucien looked genuinely confused for half a second.

Then:

“Seraphina, I once spent twelve years sleeping inside monastery crypts because a king put a bounty on my head.”

“That feels emotionally revealing.”

“It was mostly damp.”

She laughed softly before she could stop herself.

The sound lingered warmly through the room afterward.

Lucien looked toward her immediately.

There it was again.

That expression.

Like her laughter caught him off guard every single time.

He turned away first this round, moving toward the window overlooking the snow-covered city beyond.

Coward.

The thought arrived so fondly it almost frightened her.

Seraphina changed slowly beneath the blankets afterward while Lucien remained respectfully turned toward the snowfall outside.

Again with that restraint.

Always offering distance even when tension between them practically breathed on its own now.

When she finally settled beneath the blankets, exhaustion hit immediately.

Not ordinary exhaustion.

Bone-deep emotional collapse.

Lucien remained near the window.

Still.

Watching snow drift across Vienna rooftops beneath cathedral light.

“You should rest too,” she murmured sleepily.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s statistically unlikely.”

A faint laugh escaped him under his breath.

Small.

Real.

Then silence returned softly around them.

The fireplace crackled low.

Snow moved quietly beyond the glass.

And Lucien remained exactly where he was beside the window long after the room fell still.

Seraphina woke sometime later to darkness and silver-blue snowlight.

For several disoriented seconds she didn’t remember where she was.

Then she saw him.

Lucien sat beside the window in the darkened room, one arm resting loosely across his knee while snow drifted endlessly outside the glass beyond him.

He hadn’t moved.

The realization settled quietly through her sleepy thoughts.

No books open now.

No distractions.

Just Lucien sitting awake beside the snowfall like someone keeping watch over a world that stopped belonging to him centuries ago.

The city lights below painted faint gold against the side of his face while winter silence wrapped around the room.

And suddenly Seraphina understood something painful:

Immortality wasn’t endless life.

It was endless witnessing.

Lucien noticed her awake without turning around.

“You should go back to sleep.”

His voice sounded softer at night.

Lower.

Like exhaustion pulled the edges from it.

Seraphina watched the snow drifting beyond him for another long moment.

Then quietly:

“You look lonely when you think nobody’s watching.”

Lucien went very still after that.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

The silence stretched gently between them while snow continued falling over Vienna rooftops beyond the glass.

Then finally, without looking back toward her:

“That’s because I usually am.”