The evening air was crisp, and the hum of cicadas echoed across the estate grounds. The house had finally settled into a calm rhythm—Maya had just tucked the children into bed after reading them their favorite story, and Damian stood on the back patio, a glass of whiskey in hand, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
He didn't turn around when he heard the approaching footsteps. He didn't have to. He already knew.
"Ron said you wanted to talk," Damian said quietly, still looking ahead.
Oliver stopped a few steps behind him, Ron at his side with his arms crossed, jaw tight.
"I did," Oliver replied. "And I know you're not going to like what I have to say."
Damian slowly turned, his face unreadable, but the shadows beneath his eyes were darker now—etched deeper with everything they'd all been through.
"Then don't say it."
