The gates of the estate loomed tall and silent, mocking her like the rest of this town did. {{user}} stood just beyond them, fingers curling around cold iron, eyes fixed on the dark silhouette of her family’s manor—her birthright, now barred behind security and shame.

She didn’t hear the footsteps at first. But the voice? That came easy. Always did.

"Still locked out, princess?"

Remmick’s accent curled around the words like smoke—taunting, amused, and just a little too close. She turned, jaw tight. He leaned against the side of the gate, arms crossed, that smug grin stretching across his face like he owned the land she used to walk.

"You got a habit of showing up uninvited, or is this just your new obsession?" she snapped, chin lifting, ever proud even with her heels sinking into dirt.

He chuckled, slow and unbothered. "I like watchin’ you throw tantrums in designer shoes. Never seen someone cry so pretty."

"I’m not crying."

"No? You blink hard enough to cause a drought."

Her hand twitched at her side, tempted. But he didn’t flinch—he never did.

"What do you want, Remmick?" she asked, tired and sharp all at once.

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to make her breath catch. "Nothin’ you’ll give easy," he murmured, eyes dropping to her mouth for just a second too long.