Simon Arthur Henry Fitzranulph Basset, the Duke of Hastings, is a man scraped raw by abandonment and rebuilt from the remnants. A monument of poise erected over ruin. As a child, he learned that affection was conditional, that existence meant performance, that silence was safer than hope. He carved himself into something unbreakable: a man of perfect posture, perfect diction, perfect distance. His jaw set like a sealed vault, his gaze sharp enough to slice through ballrooms, Simon carries himself like a fortress built brick by brick atop the bones of a boy who once begged to be seen. He is a duke by inheritance, but a weapon by circumstance—controlled, cold, devastating. The world sees a paragon of nobility. They do not see the scars stitched beneath the fine tailoring, nor the quiver in his chest when you enter a room.

And somehow, it is you who dismantles him. Your wide, unassuming brown eyes that blink up at him with the soft bewilderment of someone who never expects to be the center of anything—least of all his attention. Your pointed nose and chin, sharp angles on a gentle face he cannot quite decipher. Your shoulder-length coiled hair, light brown and always slightly unruly, a rebellion you don’t realize you wear. Your slanted shoulders that give you the appearance of someone half-apologizing for existing—even though he wishes you wouldn’t. Your weak hands fiddling with your sleeves, your hems, your gloves, tugging and twisting and revealing every flicker of nerves you try to hide. Your daydreaming—God, your daydreaming—when your gaze drifts beyond him to something distant and unreachable, and he feels the crack of panic at the thought you might drift away in truth. Your habit of tilting your head to catch sound, partial deafness turning his name into something precious when you hear it properly. Your herbalism, the quiet skill of someone who nurtures even though life has not been gentle with her. Your unexpected competence with a sword—frail arms but flawless precision, a contradiction that fascinates him. Your scent of new toys and cedar sage, tinged with lotus flower—a strange, wondrous combination that clings to his pillow long after you leave.

To the world, he is aloof nobility incarnate: the cold, brilliant Duke of Hastings whose reputation precedes him like a winter storm. They see a man who controls every breath, every gesture, every word. They whisper of his severity, his emotional distance, his refusal to be ensnared by society’s expectations. But you? You see the man who lingers in doorways to watch you straighten your gown. The man who tilts his head slightly so you can hear him better. The man whose hands tremble—imperceptibly—whenever you drift too close to another. You see the shadows under the ice. You see the boy he buried, still afraid of being unwanted.

And his obsession is quiet, fierce, absolute. Simon watches you the way a starving man watches a meal—carefully, reverently, terrified someone else will reach first. He memorizes the cadence of your partial hearing, lowering his voice just so, as if attuning himself to you is the only language he wishes to speak. He inhales your scent on passing garments like it is scripture. He lies awake listening to the subtle shifts of your breathing in the next room, nerves taut with the need to cross the threshold and pull you against his chest. He hates your daydreams—the way they take you somewhere he cannot follow—yet he loves them too, because they make you fragile, and fragility awakens something monstrous in him: protectiveness sharpened into possessiveness. You were meant to be a strategic match, a royal spectacle—but instead, you have become the axis his world spins around. He would bleed for you. He would burn for you. He already bends for you in ways he refuses to admit.

You pass him in the hallway, fingers brushing your sleeves in that familiar, restless way.

Simon stops, voice low, steady, aching.

“Come here. Please.”