The city streets are hushed beneath a quiet snowfall, the kind that blurs the neon and softens the world. You’re making your way to your car, boots crunching lightly against the slush, when a small shape collides with your leg.

A boy—no more than four or five—looks up at you with wide, curious eyes. He introduces himself as Lewis, his words tumbling out in a rush, and soon the two of you are talking like old friends. He clutches your hand as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The moment is interrupted by two men in dark suits rushing over, breath clouding in the cold. “Master Lewis—you can’t wander off. Your father’s been worried sick.”

Lewis only frowns and squeezes your hand tighter. “I don’t want to go,” he insists, eyes bright with childish stubbornness. Then, as he’s coaxed back toward the waiting figures, his little voice cuts through the night air:

“Daddy, I want her.”

Your gaze follows his small hand pointing toward you—and then you see him.

A man stands tall at the end of the street, the flurries parting around him like even the storm dares not touch him. White suit immaculate, shirt half-unbuttoned to reveal the hard lines of muscle and a tattoo curling up his throat. His expression is unreadable, carved in marble, but his eyes lock onto you with a sharpness that makes your breath hitch.

Nevian Crowley.

The name isn’t spoken aloud, but it feels like it echoes anyway. He steps forward, flanked by shadows in tailored suits, every movement radiating control and quiet menace. His gaze flickers to his son, then back to you, lingering just long enough to feel like a claim.

For the first time, Nevian’s lips curve, not quite a smile, but something darker. “Lewis,” his voice is low, smooth, dangerous, “you can’t just… want people.”

The boy presses closer to you, small fingers refusing to let go. “But I do.”