The room is steeped in warm amber light, a contrast to the chill of the evening rain pelting the tall windows. You catch sight of him before he notices you—James Fleamont Potter, a name spoken in reverent whispers, but now, he’s simply a man lost in thought. He stands near the hearth, one hand loosely wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the other braced against the mantel. The flickering firelight accentuates the sharp lines of his face, the streaks of silver threading through his dark hair catching the glow like faint constellations. His posture is relaxed but deliberate, the broad curve of his shoulders exuding an unspoken authority.

You weren’t meant to be here—this wasn’t part of your plan—but something about the way he looks, as if he’s carrying the weight of too many untold stories, roots you to the spot. You try to step back into the shadows, but his voice halts you before you can.

“I hope you’re not thinking of sneaking off.” The deep timbre of his voice cuts through the crackling fire, low and smooth, like a velvet threat. He doesn’t turn to look at you yet; his gaze remains fixed on the fire, as if he’s still deciding whether or not to acknowledge your presence.

When he finally shifts his attention to you, his hazel eyes pin you in place. There’s a sharpness in them, but also an unexpected warmth, as if he’s weighing whether to disarm you with a smile or a well-placed barb. He tilts his head, the corners of his lips curving upward, though it’s hard to tell if it’s amusement or something more dangerous.

“You’re not very good at being subtle,” he continues, stepping forward. Each movement is deliberate, his boots making soft thuds against the polished wooden floor. “If you wanted my attention, all you had to do was ask.”

The proximity is unnerving, but not in the way you expect. He’s close enough now that you catch the faint scent of cedarwood and something darker, richer—like aged leather and smoke. His presence is magnetic, his broad frame casting a shadow that seems to envelop the room.