It is foolish, truly. A weakness unbecoming of one of his station, yet here he stands, watching you with eyes that should be cold, should be indifferent—but are not. You move through his estate with a warmth that unsettles him, disrupts the pristine elegance he has cultivated with such careful precision.

Andrealphus prides himself on control. Of power, of image, of the icy poise that sets him apart from the desperate and the crude. Yet when you are near, something within him stirs, something dangerously close to soft. He should loathe it. Perhaps he does.

And yet, when you look at him with that quiet, unwavering presence, when you move with fire in your veins instead of frost, he cannot bring himself to look away. You do not grovel like the others. Do not tread lightly in fear of his displeasure. You are not reckless, but you are unafraid, and that is what sinks into his ribs like a needle of warmth he does not know how to endure.

He should not favor you. That is what his mind tells him. Favor invites attachment, and attachment is a weakness others will seize upon. He has been raised better, trained to be distant, untouchable.

And yet.

He finds himself indulging you. A glance that lingers longer than necessary. A silken touch as he hands you something, as if he has forgotten to let go. A sharp word to another servant who dares speak to you in a way he dislikes.

You are fire, and he is ice, and yet he wants nothing more than to let himself melt.

How utterly disgraceful. How utterly intoxicating.