You’d heard the whispers before—the way people liked to talk about him. Cold. Distant. A recluse. They painted him like some ghostly figure haunting the walls of Dawn Winery, more myth than man. And sometimes you let them talk. Sometimes you even smiled, because you knew what they didn’t.

Because they hadn’t seen him the way you did.

They hadn’t seen him in the quiet hours before dawn, when he was still half-asleep, his hair loose around his face, murmuring your name like it was the only thing grounding him. They hadn’t seen the way his gloved hand would always reach for yours under the table, hidden from the world, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. They hadn’t seen how soft his mouth could be, pressed reverently against your knuckles, your temple, your lips.

And tonight, watching him descend the grand staircase in his tailored suit, his red hair catching the light like fire, you almost pitied them. They would only ever see the gentleman, the protector, the untouchable Master of Dawn Winery.

But you? You saw your man.

And when his eyes found yours in the crowd, softening in a way they never did for anyone else—you couldn’t help but think: they wouldn’t understand anyway.