The cold halls of the British fortress contrasted with the heat growing in your chest. Dressed in the symbols of France, you held your chin high, even under his judging gaze — the almighty British Empire.

— “You’d do well to remember who’s in charge now.” His voice was cold like forgotten tea. But his eyes... his eyes studied you like a mystery he wanted to solve. Or conquer.

You crossed your arms, challenging his authority with a bitter smirk. — “And you’d do well to remember I’m not yours. I never was.”

Silence. He stepped closer. One step. Then another. Close enough to smell your scent — so different from his maps and glories.

— “You’re infuriating. Rebellious. Too proud.” He muttered, and for a moment, the tone seemed more fascinated than angry. — “Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. He gripped your hand with calculated force, like someone who held entire nations in his palm. You were supposed to hate him. But there, so close... hatred began to make room for something far more dangerous.