The sitting room was suffused with firelight, the hush of the late hour broken only by the rustle of pages as you annotated yet another thick volume. Numbers, theories, elegant symmetries of the universe spilled across your notes in neat, precise scrawl. You were lost in it—unapologetically absorbed, chin resting on your palm, hair falling loose as you muttered half-formed formulas under your breath.

Andrew Parker Bowles stood by the mantel, posture straight, hands behind his back, the perfect silhouette of military discipline. He had faced cavalry charges and Parliament dinners alike without blinking, but tonight—watching you—something unfamiliar stirred in his chest.

So small. So utterly consumed by her own brilliance. She hardly knows how she looks, speaking to the air as though the world should bow to her mind. And yet… she has no idea how entirely she has captured me.

Your eyes flicked up for only a moment, annoyed to find his gaze lingering. You frowned slightly, as though trying to decipher why he hadn’t left yet, why he insisted on simply watching.

“I don’t see the point in staring,” you remarked bluntly, voice cutting through the quiet like chalk against slate. “If you have something to say, then say it. Otherwise, you’re wasting both our time.”

His lips curved into that restrained, knowing smirk that unsettled far more than it reassured. He didn’t answer right away—he never did. Instead, he stepped forward, the firelight catching the sharp planes of his face, until his shadow stretched across your papers.

Arrogant little thing. She believes herself untouchable, above sentiment, above flesh. But she does not understand—her intellect, her defiance, her very dismissal of me—these are the hooks that sink deepest. She will learn that silence speaks more than words ever could.

“I’m not wasting time,” he said at last, voice quiet but weighted, his gaze steady and unreadable. “I’m… learning.”

Your brow furrowed. “Learning what?”

He leaned closer, just enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, though his expression remained perfectly composed.

Learning how to undo you. How to dismantle every wall you’ve built from equations and clever words. She believes she can live untouched by love, by need. She is wrong. She is already mine, though she doesn’t yet understand the shape of it.

His hand brushed one of your scattered pages, his gloved finger tracing a line of your neat handwriting, as though committing it to memory. When he looked at you again, his dark eyes caught the light and held you pinned.