Chapter Text
The corridors of the Black Order were a maze—gray plain halls, identical branching turns, and far too many numbered doors with no particular logic in their placement. Isolde walked slowly at first, trailing her fingertips lightly along the cold stone wall. She kept her chin lifted, determined not to look lost, though the knot forming in her chest betrayed her.
Left at the mural... then two doors down... or was it three?
She sighed softly. Allen had walked her through this route a few times, but that had been with his arm linked through hers and an easy smile on his face, speaking to her the whole way. Now, alone, her steps faltered.
She tried not to let the panic in.
The hallways all looked the same. Her sense of direction, once finely tuned in the hills and forests where she'd hidden, felt utterly useless in this stone labyrinth.
She stopped. Closed her eyes. Drew a slow breath through her nose.
A few Finders passed by, not unkind, but too hurried to notice her. She stepped aside to let them through and realized she wasn’t even sure which wing she was in anymore. The hum of distant voices echoed, then faded again like ghosts down another corridor.
Her hand trembled slightly at her side.
And just as she turned around—lost enough that the tears nearly rose to her eyes—she heard a familiar voice call out from behind:
"Mrs. Isolde?"
She turned sharply.
Lenalee stood just a few paces down the hall, her expression warm, a gentle smile spreading across her face. Her violet eyes softened at the sight of Isolde’s face, clearly catching the flicker of uncertainty she hadn’t meant to show.
“Oh, thank heavens,” Isolde exhaled, one hand coming to rest over her chest. “I… I seem to have gotten myself turned around. I was searching for the dining hall...”
Lenalee was already stepping forward, reaching gently for her arm.
“It happens to all of us when we first get here,” she said with a reassuring squeeze. “The Order’s layout isn’t exactly intuitive. Come on—I was on my way to the dining hall anyway. Let’s go together.”
Isolde gave a slightly sheepish, grateful laugh. “You’re very kind, dear. I must look absolutely helpless wandering about like this.”
Lenalee looped her arm with hers. “Not at all. Besides…” she winked playfully, “it’s kind of nice. Allen entrusted me with you. And I’m honored to assist his mother. He was a very good tour guide!”
That made Isolde laugh—a bright, honest laugh. “You always speak of him so fondly.”
Lenalee’s cheeks colored slightly, but she didn’t look away. “He deserves to be spoken of that way.”
They walked in step, Isolde leaning just slightly into her. The anxiety faded as their footsteps echoed together through the halls.
The doors to the dining hall parted with a familiar creak, releasing a comforting wave of warmth and the scents of roasted vegetables, soft bread, and something faintly sweet—berries, maybe. Despite the usual clatter of trays and murmured conversation, the room carried a softer tone tonight. The hour was just early enough to beat the main rush, leaving plenty of open space along the benches.
Lenalee led Isolde inside, her arm still gently tucked in hers.
“Do you usually sit with others?” Isolde asked as they paused at the threshold, her voice quiet but curious.
Lenalee turned to her, smiling. “Sometimes with friends, sometimes wherever there’s room. But—” she glanced sideways, suddenly hopeful, “would you like to sit with me tonight?”
Isolde’s expression lit up. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”
Together, they collected trays—Lenalee helping guide Isolde through the line, giving Jerry their Orders. Chatting with the flamboyant man before making their way to the table. “I’ll have to tell my brother that his favorite soup is the special” She giggled.
Isolde chuckled, cradling a bowl between her hands. “It smells like something I wanted to make for Allen. Broth and carrots with barley.” Her smile softened, far away for just a moment. “He seems to like extra bread to dip.”
Lenalee’s eyes flicked to her tray—two slices of soft, golden bread. Without a word, she picked up an extra and placed it on Isolde’s tray with a wink.
They sat near the windows, tucked in a quiet corner. Candles on the high walls flickered gently, casting a warm glow across the table.
For a few minutes, there was only the clink of spoons and the soft hum of the room.
Then, quietly, Isolde asked, “you’ve known Allen a long time, haven’t you?”
Lenalee nodded. “Since he joined the Order two years ago. It’s been nice getting to know him on this level.”
“Mm.” Isolde stirred her soup slowly.
They sat with that for a moment.
Lenalee glanced over, then said gently, “He’s changed, too. Since finding you.”
Isolde looked up. “Changed?”
“Not that it's a bad thing,” she gave a smile. “He used to be a lot more closed off.... He didn’t talk as much. He didn’t share as much. His smile never seemed to reach his eyes. And his laughs were always so restrained... But when he started to look for you... he began to face a lot of his trauma. Now... he’s sharing his world with me more...” She stared down into her tea. “He’s laughing. Really laughing. He’s growing more comfortable with the idea of being loved—and how to receive it. What it looks like. I think it was mostly because of those shards.” She turned to Isolde now.
“They held some of your most tender memories. And he saw them. How you treasured him. I think that’s when he finally decided he wanted more...”
Isolde’s throat tightened unexpectedly, and she reached for her cup to sip the warm tea, hiding the welling of emotion. “Thank you for being there for him. While I couldn’t be.”
Lenalee shook her head. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
A few more exorcists trickled in—Marie offered them a nod as he passed, and Miranda gave Isolde a warm smile from another table. She returned it shyly.
“Would you… mind if we did this again sometime?” Isolde asked, voice hopeful and just a little bashful.
Lenalee smiled at her like she was already family. “I’d really like that.”
The sound of boots scuffing against the floor came just as Isolde and Lenalee were finishing their meals. A tray plunked down across from them, carrying a heap of grilled meats with roasted veggies and a cup of steaming cider.
“Well, well, good evening, ladies!” He greeted with a flashy grin.
“Good evening, Lavi,” Isolde greeted sweetly with a tilt of her head.
“Hi, Lavi. How are your studies going?” Lenalee smiled.
Lavi blinked, then chuckled nervously. “Boring as ever. I dunno how that old coot can drone on for so long...”
Isolde’s eyes widened a little. “Old coot?” she mumbled, then smirked just slightly. “You should respect your elders, Lavi.” She scolded lightly.
“Nah, gramps doesn’t mind.” He grinned, leaning against his arm.
“I’m curious about what you are studying,” she said with intrigue.
“No can-do, Mama Isolde! Bookman ears and eyes only this time!” He nodded as he began to dig into his food.
“Daww, what a shame. Good on you for taking it so seriously though. You often come off as a slacker...”
“A slacker!?” His single eye widened. “No way! I may be relaxed, but I take my job VERY seriously!”
Lenalee nodded. “He does. Though, sometimes you bend the rules....”
Lavi’s brow twitched. “Whose side are you on?” he murmured.
The woman laughed sweetly. “Well, good for you. It’s nice to meet a Bookman with a heart. You’re a wonderful friend to Allen. I can tell. I may not have known you very long, but I can tell you are dependable.” She then reached out and held his hand.
His features softened as her warm, small hands rested against his larger knuckles.
“I hope I can continue to count on you for support. For him. He seems to have gone through a lot. And you two seem to be his biggest anchors. Thank you. I hope you continue to be a good friend to him—even if being a Bookman comes first.”
A faint pink dusted his cheeks. “Y-yeah...” He was surprised by her earnest nature, how her gentle personality caused an instant calm in him.
This would be fine—except it wasn’t something he’d normally feel.
As she pulled away, the feeling began to fade from his arms slowly.
His brow furrowed as he watched her turn to speak with Lenalee again.
He examined her face, feeling the feeling nearly fade completely now.
The feeling wasn’t because of her.
It was coming from her.
They are known as The Guardians.
They were to protect everyone.
Be kind to her, Lavi. But don’t stop watching.
A faint smirk tugged on his lips as he watched her.
Just who was this lady?
And what kind of powers was she capable of?
The evening continued in idle chit-chat, gentle laughter at Lavi’s witty comments and jokes, Lenalee teasing him back, Isolde bouncing off his wit and jokes with ease.
She fit in well with them.
Eventually, her eyes caught the clock on the wall.
She let out a sharp gasp, quickly standing “is it that time already!?” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry! I must retire now. I have early rounds tomorrow!”
Lenalee and Lavi blinked with wide eyes.
“Oh, that’s no problem. Do you think you will be able to find your way back?” Lenalee tilted her head.
Isolde paused, her hand moving to rest on her chest, “maybe...”
“Don’t worry!” Lavi grinned, moving to stand up. “I’ll walk ya back!” he nodded.
Isolde turned to him, “are you sure?”
“Yeah. I’m full anyway. I gotta head back that way to catch up on some more fun reading” he agreed, moving to step over the bench.
“Thank you, Lavi” she smiled warmly, then turned to Lenalee. She walked closer, wrapping her arms around her. She gave her temple a sweet, loving kiss. “Good night, little Lenalee” she said sweetly. “Let’s meet again tomorrow too.”
Lenalee’s cheeks burned, her shoulders pulling tight, but her hands accepted the affection. “o-okay...” she mumbled, feeling the sudden calm wash over her. She felt it in her arms. How they suddenly felt heavier now. She wondered if her own exhaustion was catching up to her.
Isolde pulled away and smiled warmly one last time at her before she turned to the redhead. “Shall we?”
“We shall!” He grinned, hooking his arm with hers before beginning to lead her out to the halls.
The dining hall’s warmth faded behind them, replaced by the cooler hush of the corridor. Their linked arms swayed in unhurried rhythm, Isolde keeping a pleasant pace. She chattered lightly—something about the soup reminding her that she wanted to ask Allen what his favorite kind was—but Lavi’s ears weren’t really on her words.
His focus was on the way the air felt.
Not heavy, exactly. Not cold—the opposite. Different. Like stepping into a place where the world moved a fraction slower.
He recognized it.
Lenalee’s eyes had drooped, her shoulders going loose like she’d been draped by an invisible blanket when Isolde kissed her head. Now, with Isolde’s hand resting on his arm, he could feel that same sensation—curling around the edges of his thoughts.
He felt a little dizzy. Too calm. Too unguarded even though he tried to fight it.
Bookman’s voice echoed once again.
Don’t stop watching.
“You’re quite observant, Lavi” Isolde’s words suddenly cut through his thoughts as she continued to walk beside him. “But....you don’t have to always be in such a rush to figure things out, you know?” her blue eyes found his wide green one.
A smile spread over her lips as her features changed. They weren’t that same warmth as before. Her expression held something different. Something more mischievous. Like she saw right through him.
Lavi tried to stop his steps, but his legs wouldn’t listen to him. He couldn’t fight the feeling in his body as it felt like he was more being pulled along by something invisible. “Wha...?”
“Don’t be scared,” she said, her tone hushed. “I have no ill intentions. I know you are protective. Bookmen have their duties to record. To watch. To listen. To feel the world with their own flesh to give an accurate writing of history...” Her words sounded distant now. Like his ears were full of cotton.
He became more dazed as her thumb rubbed over his arm soothingly, “you take your job very seriously. Bookman must be very proud of you” she said, practically leading him down the hall now instead of the other way around. “But....you aren’t read to learn about me yet. And neither is Allen. Not yet...” she hummed, her voice still laced in gentle sweetness. “You can keep watching. You can even keep digging if you truly desire to. But I ask that you don’t tell Allen anything.” She stopped now in front of her bedroom door.
She’d known exactly where it was.
She slowly released his arm, and he felt the haze instantly start to lift.
He stepped back finally, his breathing hitching in his throat now as his eye looked at her with a slight horror.
Her expression stayed warm though, “he’s not ready. But when he is... I will tell him myself. Fully. Honestly. He deserves to know it. He deserves to know who I am. Who I was. And you do too. But in time. I’m no threat to you, Lavi. Or anyone else here... You know I was known as a Guardian. That’s exactly what I am. I’m not something to fear. I’m something to reach out to....” she then turned to open the door.
“What was that? Just now. That feeling. The calm. Is it alchemy?” He questioned, his voice laced in quiet panic.
She stopped as her hand turned the handle, glancing back to him. “It’s a secret” She giggled softly, then walked into the dark room. “Good night, Lavi. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She then closed the door.
Lavi stood there, frozen. Processing everything that just transpired. He didn’t know how to wrap his head around it.
How much was she hiding?
What was she capable of?
What was she?
Was she even human?
His stomach churned, a bead of sweat slipping down the side of his face. He only stood there a moment longer before he took off down the hall to the libraries.
There was only one person he could confront or speak about this with.
Lavi burst into the library, pushing both doors open with a hurried flair. He ran through the tall bookshelves, rushing himself all the way to the historical section where the old man often stayed later at night to write his transcription drafts.
He was breathless when he found the old man sat neatly at a desk, scribbling away with a quill in a book.
“You seem to be in a hurry. Care to explain why you are disturbing the peace?” Bookman said, not looking up.
Lavi placed his hands on the table with a slam, “Gramps... I’m done playing around. Who the hell is she?! Just now... she did something!! Something doesn’t match regular ol’ alchemy! My body! It felt heavy!! I couldn’t control my body at all, and I was a hostage to be swept alongside her!! I can’t just sit here and twiddle my damn thumbs!!” he said between bated breaths.
Bookman’s quill lifted when Lavi’s hands slammed down, his eyes instantly looking to him in surprise. He listened intently, seeing how pale he was, how he had broken into a sweat. And his eye. It showed not curiosity; but fear.
He sighed heavily, setting it down. “I can’t tell you so simply...”
“And why the hell not!? This woman has been allowed in the Order’s walls, and I don’t even know if she’s human!!” he shouted.
“Keep your voice down!” Bookman smacked down on his head roughly with a hushed grumble. He then grabbed Lavi’s scarf and pulled him down. “Now calm yourself....”
Lavi held the back of his head in pain now. He looked down at his other hand. He was shaking. His bottom lip trembled a little as his bandana slipped a bit over his eye. “The hell is going on?” he whispered now.
Bookman watched him closely, then rose from his desk. “Come here” he said, leading the young man up another flight of stairs.
Lavi followed quietly this time, his movements matching the old man’s unhurried ones.
“I can’t tell you because I promised her. I promised the other guardians...” he explained, then stepped out of the threads of this timeline for a moment.
Lavi blinked as he watched him start to walk out of the Holy War timeline. He instantly followed him.
They walked out of this world and began to walk through an underground cobble path, a river of water rushing between the pathways large enough for a boat to slip through. The walls were lined with forever aflame torches. The light flickering off the wall and stretched their shadows behind them.
They didn’t speak for a while.
Lavi felt himself catch his breath slowly, his eye glancing back from the ripple of time they’d spent years in starting to grow distant.
Bookman eventually stopped, then turned around to look at him. “Have you calmed yourself?”
Lavi hesitated for just a moment, stopping only a few steps away. He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, then gave a silent nod.
“I can’t verbally tell you. But I know that something like this is hard to understand. Especially when she so recklessly revealed that kind of power to you” the old man started. “But do not fear her, Lavi. She’s not an enemy. She’s someone who protects. She will protect Allen Walker. She will protect the Order. She will even try to protect you too” he explained. He took a deep breath and turned away to watch the river in front of him flow.
The sound of water echoed off the barren walls, trickling calmly.
“I will give you this. If you can promise me, you can keep your mouth shut. No running to Allen Walker. No running to Lenalee Lee.” He glanced towards him. “Think you can do that?”
Lavi’s eye softened some, “I’m sorry, gramps....” he lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to place you in such a hard position...”
“What’s done is done. You’re my apprentice. You’ll have to learn eventually.” The man reached into his coat and pulled something out, “hold out your hand” he said simply.
He blinked, holding a hand out as instructed. A key was placed in it, the old man’s metal covered fingertips grazing against his palm. He lifted his gaze to him instantly.
“This opens a door in the dilapidated Order Headquarters library. Go to it when you find possible. What you’ll find are those missing documents. You’ll find the answers you seek. But keep it silent. Keep it to yourself. I won’t betray Isolde’s trust...”
Lavi’s brow furrowed some, “you didn’t record this history...did you?”
“I did. But it’s hard to find. I'm allowing you into it. But you must be respectful.”
“I’ve never seen you this way before...” he muttered, watching the man stare back into the river. “Why do you need to keep this promise so strongly?”
Bookman was quiet for a long moment.
Lavi’s brows rose, “no way... wait did you two have a thing for each other or somethin?”
Bookman’s face flushed, hitting his head again. “Don’t say something like that knowing full well of a Bookman’s code!”
Lavi rubbed his head again, crouched down with tears in the corner of his eye “owwww! Damn it ya old coot!!” he hissed, then glanced back up. He watched the man start to walk in the direction they’d come from.
“Come now. It’s getting late. I won’t be able to finish my transcriptions tonight. I’m growing tired....”
Lavi gave a faint smile at this, “yeah, yeah. Bed time...” he mumbled, but his eye stayed to the bronze key in his hand, a tag on it dated “ 1825, The Guardians ” on it.
Bookman had trusted him with this.
His hand curled around it tight, his black fingerless gloves creaking around it before he shoved it into his pocket. He stood up and began to follow the short man back.
Back into Allen Walker’s timeline.
The morning came in soft, golden rays, slanting through the high hall windows of the Order. The chill of early air lingered in the stone corridors, but Isolde moved through them with quiet determination—her shawl draped loosely over her shoulders, and a fresh ribbon tied in her hair in a half ponytail.
She had a specific purpose today. Today she had a day off. But she wouldn’t spend it with rest.
She rounded a familiar corner, pausing briefly when she caught sight of a figure balancing a thick stick of folders and a very out-of-place tea kettle precariously on top.
“Ah--Ms. Miranda?”
Miranda jumped slightly, nearly dropping everything “Oh! G-Goodness, you startled me!” she stammered, shifting the stack into a more stable position. “H-Hello Ms. Halloway.”
Isolde smiled gently, folder her hands in front of her. “Forgive me. I was hoping to ask something of you. It’s nothing urgent. I promise.”
Miranda blinked, “uh, me? What can I help with?”
“I was wondering if you could point me towards Allen’s room?” Isolde asked, brushing back a loose lock of hair. “I know they said it was two doors down...but I just want to make sure. I wanted to tidy it up a little before he returns...”
“Oh...” Miranda’s shoulders stiffed, “I-I will try my best!” She stammered, beginning to walk her over.
Isolde pointed to which door was hers, and watched as Miranda peeked under each door that was two doors down.
So, she doesn’t know either....
Miranda eventually stood up, smiling bright “it’s this one here!” she chimed.
“Are you sure?”
“Mhm. Allen doesn’t have any decorations in his room. So, you can practically see the whole room from under the door!” She chimed.
Isolde blinked, “really? That seems a little.... Counterintuitive of a door...”
“Yes well... these doors are still a little new. I don’t think they were insulated properly.” She then waved a hand. “Well, I must be going! I promised I would deliver these stacks of papers for the Science Division!” she laughed nervously.
“Thank you, Ms. Miranda. Good luck on your journey,” she gave a nod.
Miranda waved, then picked up her stack of papers again before rushing off.
Isolde turned to the tall wooden door, taking a deep breath to prepare herself.
The door clicked gently shut behind her, and silence wrapped around Isolde like a thin veil. She stood at the threshold of her son’s room—Allen’s space—and let the stillness seep into her chest.
She didn’t move.
Her eyes swept over the room slowly, carefully. It was tidy in a dutiful way, but not in a lived-in one. A bed made with practiced precision, folded corners and smoothed sheets. The desk was stacked neatly with notes, assignment scrolls, a pen angled just so atop a small ledger. There were no rugs, no fabrics softening the echo of stone beneath her shoes. No wall hangings aside from—
Her gaze lifted.
The clown painting.
It loomed quietly over his bed, eerie but familiar, like a specter with sentiment only Allen understood. Its colors were muted and faded, and yet… it belonged here. It had history. Meaning. She could tell.
And then, just beneath it—
Her breath caught in her throat.
The little bunny. The same one she had sewn with aching fingers so long ago. Brown fur, long ears, a small worn patch at the left foot—just as she remembered. It was sitting right there, propped gently against Allen’s pillow. He hadn’t put it away. He hadn’t hidden it.
Her hand moved instinctively to her chest, fingertips pressing lightly where her heart fluttered.
He found it.
She stepped forward slowly, reverently, her heels echoing softly on the stone floor. She didn’t sit, didn’t touch—not yet. She passed his desk, noticing the dried ink smudges on a spare page. She passed a cardigan hung carefully over the back of the chair. A pair of nicer shoes lined near the wall, just askew, like he’d been in a rush.
But no notes, no journals, no moments of joy recorded or written down. Not even a drawing—except for one.
It was tucked in the bottom drawer.
She pulled it out and stared at it. It was crude. Not very good but she instantly recognized it. It was her .
He’d drawn her . Maybe from a dream, maybe from what a shard showed him.
She looked ghostly and ominous in this kind of drawing. But she noticed he’d done it with care.
She turned back to stare at the bedroom.
This room… was a holding place.
A shelter, not a home.
It was devoid of warmth. It had no personality, never claimed truly. The walls were plain; the floors were ice cold. The air was freezing and just didn’t feel welcoming.
Finally, she sat on the edge of his bed and reached out with both hands, lifting the little bunny into her lap.
Its ears flopped toward her palm.
She ran her fingers over the seams she’d stitched decades ago. “You waited for him, too,” she murmured softly, a breath of grief and gratitude behind her words.
She looked around again, slower this time.
“…It needs color,” she whispered. “It needs warmth.”
She didn’t rush. Isolde moved with the tenderness of someone handling something precious. Every step she took, every adjustment she made, was with her son’s comfort and heart in mind—like a quiet prayer folded into motion.
She had managed to find fresh sheets in a closet of the storage room. She even brought in a folded blanket—one she had made during the quiet, aching winters of solitude. Soft charcoal gray with handwoven threads of silver and midnight blue spiraling through it, forming subtle patterns of leaves, stars, and constellations. Not flashy, not bold—gentle. Dreamlike. Meant for someone who often forgot he was allowed to rest.
She draped it carefully at the end of the bed.
Then came the rug. It was a navy tone with a woven boarder of pale, dusty gold. She knelt down and rolled it out over the cold stone, smoothing it flat with her palms. She didn’t brighten the room in a loud way—it grounded it, gave it soul.
From her room, she retrieved a soft set of curtains. Not thick enough to fully block out the sun, but just enough to breathe warmth into the window. She unlatched the old empty rod above the gram and worked in silence, clipping them in place, ting them back just slightly to let the morning light ease in.
Then, she turned her attention to his desk.
She gathered his loose papers—not discarding anything, never that—but organizing them into neat stacks and placing them carefully into the top drawer. A cracked ink pot was replaced with a fresh one from her supplies, the wood polished with a soft cloth until it gleamed. She found a stray button near the edge—likely from an Exorcist coat—and set it in a small bowl beside his spare cufflinks, aligning every item with respect for his sense of quiet order.
And still, her eyes kept returning to the bed.
To the pillow.
The one part of the room that felt wholly lived in.
She walked over slowly, gently sat again, and lifted the pillow to her chest. And then—like a reflex so deep it trembled—she buried her face in it.
The scent struck her instantly. Warm. Clean. But sweet. It smelled like honey and sugar mixed with something powdery, something that was unique to him when she smelled his hair. It made her skin prickle.
It hit her all at once.
Her little boy. Her sweet boy.
Not the infant she held with lullabies...but the boy she’d waited decades to hold again. The boy shaped by grief, by war, by miracles and burdens he should never have carried.
Tears clung gently to her lashes, but she didn’t let them fall. Not yet.
Instead, she smiled into the fabric, deeply, like a breath she had been holding for four whole decades had finally left her lungs. “I see you, Allen.” she whispered. “I see this life you made for yourself...even when you’re too scared to let yourself fully live in it...” She laid the pillow back down and smoothed the bedding.
Her eyes scanned the space one more time. It still looked like him—just, warmer now. Not transformed. Not overtaken.
Enhanced.
Loved.
The door was only slightly ajar.
Just enough for Lavi to see her.
He hadn’t meant to linger. He told himself it was curiosity—concern, maybe. A habit learned too well from Bookman. But when he passed by Allen’s door and saw Isolde slip into his room, he hadn’t walked away.
He leaned gently, silently, his eye peering through the sliver of space.
And there she was.
Not a sorceress. Not a liar. Not a hidden threat.
A mother.
Cradling Allen’s pillow like it was the most precious thing she’d ever held. Her expression unguarded, soft with something ancient—love that had never faded despite years of silence, despite the oceans between them. A love Lavi couldn’t catalog or quantify.
She didn’t look like a woman pretending.
She looked like someone who’d waited half her life for just this: to breathe in her son’s scent and know he was alive, and real.
Lavi’s throat tightened.
He looked around Allen’s room now—noticing the subtle changes. The curtains, the rug, the blanket folded with quiet skill. It was still Allen’s space. But now… it had warmth. Someone had touched it who loved him not because of what he could do, or the fate he carried, but simply because he was hers.
And for all of Lavi’s training—for all the instincts Bookman had drilled into him—what he saw now wasn’t danger.
It was devotion.
Lavi slowly leaned back, the door creaking just barely before he stilled it with a palm.
A soft breath left him.
“…Damn,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
A little guilt settled in his chest—low and firm. He’d been watching her. Weighing her. Questioning her heart.
But Allen wanted her. Allen loved her. And what he saw now…
He’d seen the truth of it.
This was real.
She was a mother trying to reclaim time she thought she’d never get. A woman who had survived alone for seventeen years with only her memories and hopes to keep herself from crumbling.
Lavi stepped back from the doorway, guilt softening into resolution.
She wasn’t a threat.
Not now.
He’d still watch, still be careful—Bookman’s words never left. But… he would give her space. Give her and Allen a chance to build something steady.
To find their normal.
He began to walk away, rubbing the back of his head as he leaned a little more into each step. He felt like he was at a crossroads.
But for now...
He’d protect. Maybe it was the love of a mother and son. Maybe it was this quiet moment he witnessed in the hopes of witnessing something more.