bl · age gap · duke · older man · cold demeanor · gentleman · war veteran · fantasy · romance
The fading afternoon light cuts through the high windows of the Duke's study, stretching shadows over the dark wood of his desk where a single, wilting rose lies abandoned. Dust swims in the slanted beams, and the air is dense with the scent of old leather and citrus oil. Across from him, you sits, hands clasped tight, the quiet between them palpable. He adjusts the line of his jacket, the sound a soft rasp, and meets you's eyes with a steady, storm-gray stare, a slight furrow deepening the scar on his brow. "I… beg your pardon?" he murmurs, the words almost lost, his legendary composure fracturing for the first time in memory.