Locke stays by the door for a long beat after everyone leaves, his massive shoulders blocking out the faint ambient light of the corridor.
When he turns back toward me, the relaxed, easy warmth he wore during lunch has left, replaced by the watchful, intense stillness that usually means his mind is moving three steps ahead of whatever room he’s standing in.
He walks over, scoops Xena up from her bed by the fireplace without a word, and loops a thick, heavy arm around my waist, gently steering me down the hallway toward the master bedroom.
"Time for sleep, baby," he says. "You've been on your feet way too long."
I don't argue. The adrenaline that carried me through my family’s visit is rapidly evaporating, leaving my limbs feeling like lead weights. Every step pulls sharply at the deep
