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He considers me for a moment. “No, I didn’t. Never thought you’d care.”

My hand closes around Rowan’s throat again, my thumb brushing the warm skin there while the dark band flashes beneath his cuff.

I liked how quickly he stopped fighting me.

“What does he have?”

Across the room, Mom drifts into another phrase on the Noctis, the low notes carrying through the house.

“Autonomic regulation disorder.” Dad settles back into the couch. “Stress hits him harder than it should. Heart, blood pressure, the usual cascade.”

“What does the band do?”

His gaze follows the music toward the bow window before returning to me. “Tracks it. Warns him before it gets bad.”

“Bad how?”

“Dizziness. Fainting. Collapse, if he pushes too far.” His eyes settle on mine. “Which means he isn’t a threat to you, Ciaran, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I snort. “I wasn’t.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “He can pass out if he’s pushed too hard. That’s the part that matters.”

My mind goes straight to Black Chapel, of course. What the fuck was he doing there? He’s no gambler, and nothing about him says fighter.

One bad spell and he could’ve hit those floors hard enough to crack his skull open. Could’ve passed out in the wrong corner and woken up with somebody dragging him somewhere he didn’t want to be.

Instead, I find myself remembering the look on his face when he realized I was following him.

And I still chased him anyway. Still liked it too much.

If he’s a coincidence, he’s a useful one. If he isn’t, Dad can keep his secrets a little longer.

Dad pushes to his feet and crosses the room toward Mom. “Just keep an eye on him. If he leaves campus, I want to know. As soon as I know more, you’ll know more.”

The last note from the Noctis lingers in the room before fading into silence.

Mom lowers the bow, sets the Noctis beside her, and lets her fingers linger on the dark wood. “What do you think? I finished that yesterday.”

Dad is already beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. “Wonderful. Can’t wait to discover what you’ve hidden in this one.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Mom’s mouth. “You’re still talking about that love letter?”

“I’m still talking about an entire confession you encoded into a Noctis composition.”

“I was sixteen.”

“You were impossible.”

“And yet you figured it out.”

Dad laughs. “Because I returned your feelings, darling. And because Vera Orlov spent months trying to decode it first.”

That earns a soft laugh from Mom. “Vera never could mind her own business.”

Mom’s fingers drift over the Noctis. “The old composers hid all kinds of things in the phrasing. Whole letters, if you knew how to listen for them.” Her smile fades a fraction. “Most people have forgotten how.”

“Most people,” Dad agrees, and something older than the joke passes between them.