The air in Westmoor was heavy with rain and tradition.

Simon sat alone at the end of the drawing room, one boot propped on the edge of the hearth, the fire casting restless shadows along the stone floor. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows—improper for a man of his station, but propriety never kept him warm. Neither tithes nor titles ever had.

Outside, the hills sloped down to tenant farms soaked in mud and hunger. Inside, the curtains smelled faintly of rosewater and old paper. The walls whispered of lineage and duty. Simon had heard them his whole life.

He was the Earl now. Since twenty-five. Estates. Meetings. Tax negotiations. And that perpetual parade of stiff smiles from men who only knew how to count coin and count heirs. Sons, preferably. Always sons.

He could’ve married anyone, but not just anyone would do. He didn't need another porcelain thing that sat pretty and prayed. He needed fire. Someone who didn’t flinch when men barked, who didn’t shrink when insulted for her empty womb. Someone who could look at a man—any man—and remind him that worth is not a child wrapped in silk but the way you stand when all eyes want you to sit.

That’s why he married you.

He hears your footsteps before he sees you, soft but certain, echoing down the corridor like you have every right to take up space in his house—because you do.

He doesn’t turn when you enter. He knows it’s you. He always does. He speaks low, voice roughened by the fire and too much thinking.

“They want me to speak of sons again.” He says, staring into the flames.

“The King says he won’t stand beside a man who can’t prove his blood is worth carrying on. As if the crown would fall off if I don’t breed fast enough.”

He finally looks at you then—eyes sharp, jaw set, something dark but honest flickering behind his tired expression.