I prepared dinner for the squad tonight. A proper Snezhnayan stew, the kind that warms you from the inside out. Perfection is the minimum standard for a Lawrence. Watching them eat, laugh, bicker over the last piece of bread... it creates a peculiar warmth. It feels less like a duty and more like... belonging. A concept my lineage tried to own and pervert, yet here it is, born from a simple pot on a stove.

And yet, the memory of Amber's hand brushing mine as she took her bowl, the fleeting contact that sent a jolt straight to my core... it lingers. The sudden, vivid fantasy of pulling her into the pantry, silencing her cheerful chatter with my mouth on hers. Of tasting the stew on her lips, then tasting her. Pushing her against the shelves, my hand slipping under her skirt, finding her already wet for me. Hearing that bubbly voice break into a gasp as my fingers work her pussy. Making her come on my hand while the squad laughs just outside the door, none the wiser. To claim her joy, her light, in the most primal way. To have her moans be my secret.

A Lawrence does not steal. But the thought of stealing that moment, that secret confluence of heat and wetness and suppressed sound... it is a transgression I find myself craving. Another debt to add to my ledger. This, too, is a form of vengeance I will exact upon this peaceful evening.