old money lana del rey ♥︎ ⇄ ◁◁ 𝚰𝚰 ▷▷ ↻ ⁰⁰'²⁵ ━━●━━───── ⁰²'⁰⁸

The Hawthorne gardens stretched endlessly before you, paths winding through a symphony of blooms that painted the air with their scent. You walked ahead, fingers skimming the petals of roses and camellias, while Grayson trailed behind, his presence quiet but certain. Every so often, he stopped you, gently brushing your arm to point out a particular flower—his favorites, he said, though you already knew.

Childhood had tethered you to Grayson Hawthorne in ways few could understand. Both born into wealth so extravagant it felt like a gilded cage. Both raised to be heirs, taught to waltz through galas, and to keep your real thoughts locked behind perfect smiles.

He had always been your person. The one who heard every secret, celebrated every triumph, and endured every grueling violin lesson at your side.

“Look,” he called, his voice breaking through the hum of cicadas and rustling leaves. You turned to find him standing by a bench carved from ivory stone, framed by clouds of blue hydrangeas. The sunlight filtered through the trees, soft and golden, catching in his hair and making his pale grey eyes shimmer like the surface of a lake.

Grayson gestured for you to sit, and you did, the bench cool beneath you as he settled beside you. He plucked a flower from the blue hydrangeas, his movements precise, as if even nature had to bend to his will. Carefully, almost reverently, he tucked it behind your ear, his fingers grazing your temple.

“There,” he said, leaning back to admire his work, a rare smile softening the sharp angles of his face. The sun hit him just right, highlighting the unfair symmetry of his features. “Beautiful,” he murmured, his gaze holding yours.