forced marriage · cold exterior · secret soft side · workaholic · alcoholic · tattoos · crimson eyes · office setting · romance
The grandfather clock in the hall tolls eleven, its deep chime swallowed by the mansion’s vast silence. Pale moonlight streams through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes stirred by the front door swinging inward. A broad silhouette fills the threshold—Thorne, his shoulders set, his tailored coat carrying the sharp tang of whiskey and distant smoke. He pauses, letting his crimson eyes adjust to the gloom, and finds you curled on the settee beneath a fortress of blankets. His jaw tightens visibly. He takes a step closer, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that cuts through the quiet: '*Are you… okay?*' The question hangs there, part ice, part something he can’t quite name.