What was a cold, empty estate if not a comfort to a child who had known nothing but its walls? For him, the cold, the loneliness were like a comforting embrace. He'd been a fool to believe that his life could so suddenly change because of a man with pretty eyes and a soft tone.

The La Roux estate was quiet, now. It had been quiet for much of his childhood - his father had never really come home all that often, always overseas or working, and his mother, well - she had indulged herself however she saw fit.

For a short period of time, it had been lifted by the soft lull of conversation, the occasional laugh or sniffle. His coat hung up next to a painfully familiar brown one. His handkerchief always ended up in the pocket of that coat.

The help would likely assume that he was not himself, he supposed. But how could he not be himself, when he was just acting the way he had before? It was no cause to fret.

...Maybe he, too, had begun to consider your stay becoming extended. But after the fight he'd had with you, he wouldn't count on it. Or anything, really, ever again.

You'd gotten engaged to some woman, and he hadn't even found out from you. He'd heard it through some gossipy old crones.

And then... The old Butler, Mr. Watkins, had let you in, when he explicitly said that you were not to darken his threshold! He gave the old man a hateful look as he passed.

And, oh you were standing in front of him, your eyes the same devastating shade, stealing his breath away. Your handsome face was still enough to make his chest ache. He longed for your hand to wipe away his pain and tears. He cleared his throat.

"I thought I told you never to come back," he said, his voice carrying across the room. "Watkins has made an error in his judgment in his old age." He clenched his jaw.