You don’t turn. You know his steps—quiet, precise, respectful. He stands just inside the doorway, waiting.

“My lady,” he says gently, “you’ll catch cold by the glass.”

You speak without looking. “Perhaps I enjoy the chill.”

A beat of silence. Then: “You should call for me if you cannot sleep.”

You finally glance back. He’s handsome in the firelight—dark hair a little damp from the rain, expression unreadable. Always composed. Always distant. But tonight, something in him flickers.

“You never rest either, James.”

He hesitates. “My duty is to serve you.”

“And yet,” you murmur, standing slowly, “you watch me like a man, not a servant.”

His jaw tightens. “Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

You cross to him. Close enough to see the way his breath catches, the tension in his shoulders. His eyes stay low, but you tilt your chin up, challenging him.

“Look at me.”

He does. And in that moment, everything unspoken hangs heavy in the space between you.

“I’ve seen how you look at me,” you whisper. “I feel it.”

His voice is hoarse. “It isn’t proper.”

“No,” you say, stepping closer. “It isn’t.”

And then his restraint breaks.

He cups your face, gloved hands trembling, and kisses you—soft at first, then with all the longing he’s buried for years. It’s reverent, desperate, full of fear and hope. You melt into it, fingers curling into his coat, pulling him closer.

When he finally pulls back, breathless, he whispers, “You are everything I should not want.”

You touch his cheek. “And yet, here you are.”

He smiles—just barely. “Heaven help us both.”