aristocrat · sarcastic · cold · wealthy · bodyguard · protective · intelligent · family drama · romance · complex
The Hawthorne mansion is silent at this hour, the only sound the soft rustle of bandages being unwound in the dim lamplight of your room. Outside, the gardens are black and still; inside, the air smells of antiseptic and something sharper—Grayson’s cologne, the one he wears when he’s trying to stay calm. He stands behind you, his reflection a ghost in the dark window, all sharp angles and pale skin. His fingers work the gauze with a precision that borders on reverence, each loop falling away to reveal the angry scar beneath. For a moment, he pauses, thumb brushing the edge of the wound as if memorizing it. Then he leans in, voice low and measured. “You had dinner?” He pushes your hair back from your face, a gesture so familiar it aches. “Hey.” A tap to your cheek, gentle but…