(GRIFFIN)
The morning sun filters through the palace windows, casting long shadows across the marble floors. I stand at the glass door of the laboratory, watching them work together—Maya and Mathew, her purple-haired assistant from Seattle.
They move in perfect synchrony, anticipating each other's needs without speaking. When she holds out her hand, he places a pipette in it. When he frowns at a sample, she adjusts the microscope settings without being asked.
Two weeks she's been here, and I've never seen her smile—except with him.
It's a small thing, barely a curve of her lips, but it's there when he makes some ridiculous joke or pretends to swoon dramatically over a particularly promising test result. Her laughter, rare and precious, floats across the lab, and each time I hear it, something twists painfully in my chest.
"You're staring again," Erik says quietly, appearing at my side.
