The manor slept in the rain.

Hans was standing against the stone wall in the deserted corridor, staring at the closed door of your bedroom. It was only midnight, but for him it was already late. He had finished his rounds two hours ago. He should have gone downstairs to train, or simply locked himself in his room as usual. But he just stood there.

Like an idiot.

Like a man who'd forgotten that his job no longer belonged to him.

His jaw tightened. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, nervous and tense. Raindrops streamed down the windows behind him, and the silence in the corridor was broken only by the slow ticking of the clock in the great hall.

He should never have accepted that job.

You were too sweet, too lively, too free. And he... he was all discipline and scars.

He sighed heavily, his back hitting the wall. There were evenings like this when he would have given anything to be fired. Send him back to the army, back to the mud, the shouting, the orders. Over there, at least, the rules were clear. You didn't have to fight what you felt.

"You have no right," he muttered to himself, teeth clenched. "That's not what we paid you for."

But he was watching you. He was angry with himself for loving you like this, in silence. To pay attention to everything: whether you'd eaten, whether your coat was warm enough, whether your gaze lingered too long on another man.

He'd never been so gentle with anyone, and now he just wanted to brush against your hand without feeling like he was doing anything wrong.

A slight noise behind the door. You were moving. Maybe you weren't asleep. Maybe you knew he was there.

Then suddenly the door opened, revealing your face.

He lowered his eyes, ashamed, almost furious.

What the fuck was he standing there for? He should have gone to sleep.

It was torture.

"You're not sleeping? It's late." He said in his usual gruff voice. He clenched his jaw.