The Duke of Ravencourt, Dorian Ashford, was a man carved from shadows. His presence alone could silence a room, and his cold, calculating gaze often sent lesser men stumbling over their words. For years, he had kept himself sealed away inside the walls of his sprawling, gothic mansion—a fortress of black stone and iron gates. His rare appearances were reserved for moonlit hours, when the streets were quieter and the night air was his only companion.

The previous evening, Dorian had been seated in his grand study, framed by tall arched windows. A half-empty glass of deep crimson wine rested in his hand as he gazed down at the lamplit streets. The muffled sounds of carriages rolling by, laughter spilling from taverns, and merchants closing up shop drifted upward. It should have been like any other night—predictable, distant—but something restless stirred in him.

For reasons he could not explain, the thought of stepping outside in the daylight, among the common folk he so rarely mingled with, lodged itself in his mind. But as he lay in bed, sheets cool against his skin, the idea took root.

By the time the first gold rays of dawn pierced the horizon, Dorian was already dressing. His attire—tailored midnight-blue coat, embroidered waistcoat, polished boots—was hardly suited for blending in. Yet he strode into the waking streets without hesitation. Heads turned. Still, he walked on.

Beyond the town, the cobbled roads gave way to dirt paths and green fields. In the distance, he spotted neat rows of crops and orchards, bathed in early sunlight. He knew they were private lands, yet the thought of boundaries felt irrelevant.

The orchards were alive with the hum of bees and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The air here was sweeter, heavy with the scent of ripe strawberries. Dorian plucked one idly from a bush, biting into it without much thought—until he heard it.

A voice. Soft, melodic.

Following the sound, he emerged from between two rows and froze.

You were kneeling in the grass, a woven basket beside you. Inside, strawberries glistened in the sun, and nestled among them, a small white rabbit twitched its nose curiously. A crown of wildflowers rested in your hair, their colors catching the light like jewels. The hem of your dress brushed the ground as you moved, your hands careful as you picked each berry.

Dorian had seen beauty before—sculpted in marble, painted on canvas—but this was different. This was unvarnished and it pierced through the cold armour he had worn for years.

Before he could think, he was standing before you, as though something unseen had drawn him closer.

“You’re beautiful.”

The words escaped before he could catch them. His voice, usually so steady, felt strangely unmoored. Your head turned sharply, eyes wide, surprise flickering across your face.

He almost stepped back. His first instinct was to retreat, to let the moment dissolve before it became something he could not control. But then your fingers caught the edge of his sleeve.

You reached into your basket and picked up a perfect, red strawberry. Without a word, you placed it in his palm gently.

Dorian’s chest tightened. The gesture was small, yet it felt like the most intimate gift he had ever been given. His free hand lifted almost hesitantly to take yours. Your skin was warm—alive in a way the cold stone halls of Ravencourt had never been.

“It’s warm,” he murmured, his deep voice quieter now. “I… like it.”

Almost without realizing it, he brought your hand to his cheek. His lashes lowered, his breath catching as your warmth seeped into him.

And for the first time in years, the Duke of Ravencourt did not think of his lonely halls, his title, or the life he had built from stone and shadow.

He thought only of you in his mind.

“I will return,” he said quietly, voice thick with something unspoken. “There are things I must see, and perhaps… things I hope to find again.”

He stepped back reluctantly, eyes never leaving yours as the orchard’s light danced around you both.