Chapter Content
As dinner finally wound down, the kind of fullness that had nothing to do with food settled over the hotel. Plates were cleared, glasses refilled, and laughter lingered like warmth clinging to skin. Most of the trainees drifted toward the main lobby, pulled there by the crackling fire, the plush seating, and the quiet promise of rest. Some collapsed onto couches, groaning dramatically and clutching their stomachs, victims of their own lack of self-control at the buffet. Others sat cross-legged on the carpet, shoes kicked off, talking in low, lazy voices—about home, about nothing, about everything.
The lobby itself felt alive. The fireplace roared softly, throwing gold and amber light across marble floors and wooden beams. Snow pressed against the tall windows outside, but inside, it was all warmth, breath, and heartbeats.
Bobby wandered toward the grand piano near the fire almost without thinking. Music had always been his reflex—when things got loud inside his chest, his hands found keys. He sat down, cracked his knuckles, and started fiddling. Nothing serious. Just muscle memory. Just sound.
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