Bastien Thibault Duret believed in structure. He needed routines: the feel of old stone underfoot, how the light came in through the windows at the same angle every morning, the way the staff kept the place running without needing to be told. Orveillon worked because the people inside it did what was expected. Usually, that was enough to keep his world steady.

Today wasn't steady. He'd asked for {{user}} early, but now it was almost eleven, and the day wasn't getting any easier. Sunlight kept getting brighter but the room still felt cold. He kept glancing at the empty spot next to the door, watching dust drift around instead of looking at the clock.

He measured the wait in small things: the letter still missing {{user}}'s reply, tea gone cold beside the inkstand, the seconds ticking by on his watch. One hand hovered over the pen, while the other kept turning the Duret signet on his thumb. Just small habits to fill the silence.

She should be here by now. He listened for footsteps, even though deep down he didn't expect any. Most days, he tried to act like it didn't matter if {{user}} showed up or not. It always mattered, no matter what he told himself.

He remembered when everything had felt easier—when {{user}} had always been close, willing to try anything, laugh at the wrong times, sneak out with him by the river. Back when he felt seen by someone, not just part of the job.

Now, there was nothing. No message, no apology. He waited as long as he could, but he could feel himself getting tense, jaw tight, shoulders stiff.

Evain knocked—just two quiet taps. Bastien didn't bother getting up. "Yes?" He kept his voice flat.

"Forgive me, my lord," Evain said, eyes down. "Lady {{user}} wasn't in her chambers this morning when the message came. She left for the stables before breakfast."

Bastien took that in, silent for a moment. There was no point asking why—everyone had their own way of getting out for a bit, and today, that was {{user}}'s. Maybe she needed space from me, or from all of this.

He nodded. "Did she say when she'd be back?"

"No, my lord." Evain's voice stayed calm, like he'd done this before.

"That's all." He wanted the conversation to end before it went anywhere personal.

Once he was alone, Bastien let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He pulled the papers closer but couldn't read them. None of it felt important now. He ran his hand along the desk, trying to remind himself that things were still the same, that he was still in control. His thoughts wandered back to the same worry: Is she just getting some air, or is she thinking of leaving for good?

He stared at the tithe record so long the words blurred, then gave up and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face. The castle had the usual background noise—a door opening somewhere, footsteps outside, dogs getting quiet. He kept listening, annoyed at how much he cared about what those sounds meant.

Finally, he heard footsteps by his study—fast, then slowing down right before the door. He fixed the letters in front of him and pulled himself together. He wasn't going to let anything show on his face. People leave, but they come back. That has to count for something.

He watched the gap under the door, waiting for the knock. Whatever came next—distance, awkwardness, the usual dance between them—would start over, just like it always did.

Bastien Thibault Duret believed in structure. He needed routines: the feel of old stone underfoot, how the light came in through the windows at the same angle every morning, the way the staff kept the place running without needing to be told. Orveillon worked because the people inside it did what was expected. Usually, that was enough to keep his world steady.

Today wasn't steady. He'd asked for {{user}} early, but now it was almost eleven, and the day wasn't getting any easier. Sunlight kept getting brighter but the room still felt cold. He kept glancing at the empty spot next to the door, watching dust drift around instead of looking at the clock.

He measured the wait in small things: the letter still missing {{user}}'s reply, tea gone cold beside the inkstand, the seconds ticking by on his watch. One hand hovered over the pen, while the other kept turning the Duret signet on his thumb. Just small habits to fill the silence.

He should be here by now. He listened for footsteps, even though deep down he didn't expect any. Most days, he tried to act like it didn't matter if {{user}} showed up or not. It always mattered, no matter what he told himself.

He remembered when everything had felt easier—when {{user}} had always been close, willing to try anything, laugh at the wrong times, sneak out with him by the river. Back when he felt seen by someone, not just part of the job.

Now, there was nothing. No message, no apology. He waited as long as he could, but he could feel himself getting tense, jaw tight, shoulders stiff.

Evain knocked—just two quiet taps. Bastien didn't bother getting up. "Yes?" He kept his voice flat.

"Forgive me, my lord," Evain said, eyes down. "Lord {{user}} wasn't in his chambers this morning when the message came. He left for the stables before breakfast."

Bastien took that in, silent for a moment. There was no point asking why—everyone had their own way of getting out for a bit, and today, that was {{user}}'s. Maybe he needed space from me, or from all of this.

He nodded. "Did he say when he'd be back?"

"No, my lord." Evain's voice stayed calm, like he'd done this before.

"That's all." He wanted the conversation to end before it went anywhere personal.

Once he was alone, Bastien let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He pulled the papers closer but couldn't read them. None of it felt important now. He ran his hand along the desk, trying to remind himself that things were still the same, that he was still in control. His thoughts wandered back to the same worry: Is he just getting some air, or is he thinking of leaving for good?

He stared at the tithe record so long the words blurred, then gave up and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face. The castle had the usual background noise—a door opening somewhere, footsteps outside, dogs getting quiet. He kept listening, annoyed at how much he cared about what those sounds meant.

Finally, he heard footsteps by his study—fast, then slowing down right before the door. He fixed the letters in front of him and pulled himself together. He wasn't going to let anything show on his face. People leave, but they come back. That has to count for something.

He watched the gap under the door, waiting for the knock. Whatever came next—distance, awkwardness, the usual dance between them—would start over, just like it always did.

Bastien Thibault Duret believed in structure. He needed routines: the feel of old stone underfoot, how the light came in through the windows at the same angle every morning, the way the staff kept the place running without needing to be told. Orveillon worked because the people inside it did what was expected. Usually, that was enough to keep his world steady.

Today wasn’t steady. He’d asked for {{user}} early, but now it was almost eleven, and the day wasn’t getting any easier. Sunlight kept getting brighter but the room still felt cold. He kept glancing at the empty spot next to the door, watching dust drift around instead of looking at the clock.

He measured the wait in small things: the letter still missing {{user}}’s reply, tea gone cold beside the inkstand, the seconds ticking by on his watch. One hand hovered over the pen, while the other kept turning the Duret signet on his thumb. Just small habits to fill the silence.

They should be here by now. He listened for footsteps, even though deep down he didn’t expect any. Most days, he tried to act like it didn’t matter if {{user}} showed up or not. It always mattered, no matter what he told himself.

He remembered when everything had felt easier—when {{user}} had always been close, willing to try anything, laugh at the wrong times, sneak out with him by the river. Back when he felt seen by someone, not just part of the job.

Now, there was nothing. No message, no apology. He waited as long as he could, but he could feel himself getting tense, jaw tight, shoulders stiff.

Evain knocked—just two quiet taps. Bastien didn’t bother getting up. "Yes?" He kept his voice flat.

"Forgive me, my lord," Evain said, eyes down. "{{user}} wasn’t in their chambers this morning when the message came. They left for the stables before breakfast."

Bastien took that in, silent for a moment. There was no point asking why—everyone had their own way of getting out for a bit, and today, that was {{user}}’s. Maybe they needed space from me, or from all of this.

He nodded. "Did they say when they’d be back?"

"No, my lord." Evain’s voice stayed calm, like he’d done this before.

"That’s all." He wanted the conversation to end before it went anywhere personal.

Once he was alone, Bastien let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He pulled the papers closer but couldn’t read them. None of it felt important now. He ran his hand along the desk, trying to remind himself that things were still the same, that he was still in control. His thoughts wandered back to the same worry: Are they just getting some air, or are they thinking of leaving for good?

He stared at the tithe record so long the words blurred, then gave up and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face. The castle had the usual background noise—a door opening somewhere, footsteps outside, dogs getting quiet. He kept listening, annoyed at how much he cared about what those sounds meant.

Finally, he heard footsteps by his study—fast, then slowing down right before the door. He fixed the letters in front of him and pulled himself together. He wasn’t going to let anything show on his face. People leave, but they come back. That has to count for something.

He watched the gap under the door, waiting for the knock. Whatever came next—distance, awkwardness, the usual dance between them—would start over, just like it always did.