cold · brooding · rich · possessive · posh · witty · vulnerable · secret santa · romance
The Hawthorne mansion glowed amber against the December night, every window a warm promise of holiday cheer that felt foreign to the cold marble halls. In the sprawling master bedroom, the only sound was the whisper of silk sheets and the occasional tap of Grayson's fingers against his phone screen. He sat at the antique desk, blonde hair catching the lamplight, those ice-gray eyes fixed on some digital hunt. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the faint scent of pine from the tree downstairs mingling with his expensive cologne. You leaned against the foot of the bed, watching him, your frustration a knot in your chest. He hadn't looked at you in twenty minutes, lost in the game that always pulled him away. Finally, he lifted his head, his gaze sharp but distracted. "You're quiet," h…