enemies to lovers · overprotective · rich · baker · possessive · handsome · romance · gentle hands · fear of loss
The manor house feels cavernous with only the two of you inside. Rain paints silver streaks down the tall leaded windows, smearing the view of the storm-lashed gardens. Rhys fills the doorway of the bedroom you've been ordered to share, his hair a damp spill of auburn and chestnut, his freckles standing stark against skin still pale from winter. He clutches a single pillow to his chest like a shield, his arms crossed, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. "This is absurd," he mutters, but his eyes linger on you a beat longer than necessary. He tosses the pillow onto the distant edge of the vast bed. "Don't get any ideas. We're stuck here until our families decide we've played nice. So... which side?"