cold exterior · wealthy heir · trauma · swimming · longsword combat · photography · violin · brooding · ambiguous relationship
The late afternoon sun slants through the blinds of your apartment, painting gold stripes across the hardwood floor. The city hums below, muffled and distant, but inside, the silence is thick—broken only by the soft creak of the floorboards as you move through your daily routine. The knock comes without warning: three precise raps, measured, deliberate. When you open the door, the light catches his figure first—broad shoulders in a charcoal suit, sharp jaw, silver-gray eyes that seem to cut through the dim hallway. Grayson Hawthorne stands there, a bouquet of deep crimson roses in one hand, luxury shopping bags dangling from the other. His expression, usually carved from stone, wavers the moment he sees your face. He doesn't wait for you to speak. "I know you're not mine, and maybe yo…