The Shelby house smells faintly of whiskey, tobacco, and expensive perfume — Ada’s perfume, sweet and heady in the warm afternoon air. She’s pulling dresses from a chest, tossing them over her arm as she laughs and talks a mile a minute.

“You’ve got the figure for this one,” she says, holding up a soft cream dress against you. “Honestly, it’s wasted sittin’ in my closet.”

You’re smiling, amused by her enthusiasm, when the door creaks open.

“Oi, Ada,” comes a familiar rough voice — steady, low, distinctly Shelby. “You plan on blockin’ the whole bloody hallway with your fashion parade or what—”

He stops when his eyes land on you.

For a heartbeat, John just… stares. There’s a flicker of surprise, maybe even curiosity, before the corner of his mouth lifts. “Didn’t know we were hostin’ royalty today.”

Ada rolls her eyes. “This is my friend. Keep your comments to yourself, John.”

He ignores her, stepping further in, his gaze never really leaving you. “Pleasure,” he says, offering a small, deliberate smirk and a nod that feels both teasing and a little too sincere.