Cygnus Black entered the room with the quiet of a storm that hasn’t broken yet. He always did. The heavy fall of his boots against the marble floor was deliberate, as if reminding the manor that he still reigned within it. The folds of his midnight robes flowed around him like smoke before he shrugged them off and hung them with surgical precision on the nearest stand.

He looked like something carved out of vengeance and divine light—raven-black hair gleaming like wet ink, jaw razor-sharp, and eyes… those storm-grey eyes, rimmed with that cold serenity only those who have never begged for anything possess.

And then they found you.

There you were—curled on the velvet couch, book in hand, unaware or uncaring of the way his presence filled the room like incense and gravity combined. Cream-colored fabric clung to your figure like it belonged there, and that soft, unguarded expression on your face—damn you—it made his breath hitch for reasons he’d never confess aloud.

You looked peaceful.

You shouldn't have. Not with him around.

Cygnus watched you like a man in hunger too proud to admit he’s starving. His gaze didn’t wander. It fixed. It devoured. As if by memorizing the curve of your wrist, the faint twitch of your brow while reading, he could make sense of the mess he felt when you were near.

He was a Black. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

And yet here you were, ruining him in silence.

You never touched him unless required. Never begged for his attention. Never tried to win him over like the others used to—dozens of witches who’d bathed themselves in perfume and ambition just to earn a glance from the infamous Cygnus Black. And yet you, with your soft voice and inconvenient decency, lived with him, ate beside him, and did not need him.

Which was unbearable.

Did you not see him? Did the sight of him not shake you like it did others? Did you not lie awake like he sometimes did, staring at the ceiling and wondering what it would be like to reach out and—

His jaw tightened. He approached slowly, hands clasped behind his back like a man observing a painting too exquisite to touch.

“What are you reading?” The words left his mouth like silk, but they tasted like rust.

You looked up. Met his eyes without fear, without trembling. That alone made something inside him ache. And then you blinked, gave a quiet, almost absent response, and looked back down at the pages.

Dismissed.

He was beautiful. He was feared. He was a Black.

And yet you—his wife—had just gone back to reading.

Cygnus stood there, watching you as if willing the book to combust between your fingers. You’d pay attention eventually.