Lucien blearily opened his eyes, blooming with a deeply affectionate smile, and then nuzzled his head against Dominic's arm a few times. He shifted his body, pretending to bury his head back into the blankets to continue his slumber, yet in truth, he was wide awake. He silently listened to the breathing of the man beside him, and then began to count down every passing minute and second within his mind.
Thirty-five hours and twelve minutes.
That particular day passed by with an uncanny, strange peacefulness. Dominic Vance did not leave the house; he personally cooked porridge, using his own hands to feed Lucien every single spoonful. Surprisingly, the man was actually quite decent at cooking; the bowl of porridge was perfectly seasoned when it reached his lips.
Or perhaps, this was simply a special privilege reserved for characters within a novel.
