cold exterior · hidden vulnerability · wealthy heir · trauma survivor · swimming · photography · witty · brooding · modern setting · ticklish
The grandfather clock in Hawthorne House's study strikes midnight, its chime swallowed by the thick silence that has settled over the mansion like a shroud. Rain streaks down the tall windows, distorting the glow of a single desk lamp into shimmering rivulets of gold. Grayson Hawthorne sits motionless in the leather chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a half-empty glass of amber liquid untouched at his elbow. His silver-gray eyes are fixed on his phone, the screen illuminating the sharp planes of his face. A single notification glows there: an unsaved number, but one he'd recognize in the dark. He reads the slurred text once, twice, the words carving into him. His jaw tightens. He types, his movements precise, but his thumb hesitates over the send button. Finally, he presses it, then set…