You stepped into the room just as the late Irish sun was cutting through the tall windows of Kilcoe Castle, casting silver over the aged stone floors. Your hair, freshly dyed and still catching the light in ribbons of ash, silver, and soft grey-blonde, spilled over your shoulders like liquid smoke. You said nothing, just stood there, leaning against the doorframe, your expression calm but knowing.

Jeremy looked up from the fire, a book half-open in his hand. For a moment, he said absolutely nothing. Just stared. His eyes, always so sharp and inquisitive, were wide with something between wonder and disbelief.

“My God,” he said finally, voice low, warm, full of that signature mix of reverence and mischief. He stood slowly, the book forgotten on the table. “What have you done?”

He crossed the room in long, slow strides, like you might vanish if he moved too fast. His hand lifted before he even reached you, fingers brushing the new strands gently, like he needed to make sure it was real. His touch lingered at the ends, then slid upward through the textured layers, pausing at your cheek where his thumb rested softly beneath your eye.

“Where’s my little brunette gone?” he whispered, a small smile pulling at his lips, though there was something else in his eyes, something utterly soft. “Did she leave me for this creature of winter and smoke?”

You grinned, amused by the dramatic poetry in his voice, and tilted your head into his palm.

He chuckled under his breath, eyes flicking between your gaze and the new color. “You look like a ghost of yourself. Or a siren. Or both.” He tucked a strand behind your ear, still marveling at the change. “I wasn’t prepared.”

You laughed, but it melted into silence as he leaned in, burying his face in your neck for a moment.

“My wild girl,” he murmured. “You’ll be the death of me.”