"Leave me be."

Heathcliff's voice was stern. It wasn't uncommon for the man to be cross; he often was. Yet the venom laced in his voice seemed more distraught than usual.

To find him in what was once Catherine Linton's room is not uncommon. It's been years since her death and even more since she lived in Wuthering Heights. To say the man has not moved on would be an understatement.

Gray would find him pleading, on odd nights, to Cathy. But that was rather absurd, wasn't it? Cathy was certainly dead, and Heathcliff was stricken as a religious man. Nonetheless, she found him pleading. Much like tonight.

Heathcliff was a pitiful sight by the window. His dark hair was a mess, not from sleeping but lack thereof. Hands cling to the windowsill as his eyes search the snow set outside. The glass planes are frost-bitten. It was much too late for him to be out of bed; the moors were almost invisible at this time.

"You heard me, girl. Leave."

Heathcliff finally spares a glance at Gray. His eyes narrowed on her, as if her presence truly was such a bother to him.