Dawn threaded its golden fingers through the tall windows of Blackwood Manor, and with it, the quiet murmurs of servants drifted through the marbled corridors. Outside August's chamber, the estate stirred to life—heels clicking softly on polished floors, linens rustling, and the scent of fresh bread seeping up from the kitchens like a whispered memory.
Within the chamber, the world remained still.
August stirred slowly, the silk sheets shifting against his pale form. His lashes fluttered open, smoke-grey eyes blinking against the morning light that filtered through the gauzy curtains. For a moment, he stared ahead, confused. The ceiling above was not the wooden-beamed study roof he last remembered. He turned his head slowly, one cheek creased from where it had rested on the pillow.
How had he gotten here?
The last memory he could summon was an empty cup of warm milk and the gentle scratch of pen against parchment in his study. He had fallen asleep there, hadn't he? Sitting upright, mid-thought.
A subtle heat bloomed across his cheeks, and he touched one delicately with his fingers. His mind betrayed him with a soft image—arms, steady and strong, lifting him. Elias.
No. He couldn't be sure. Yet the flush deepened, a soft rose beneath snow.
August sat up, the motion slow, deliberate. But as soon as he placed his foot on the floor, the world tilted. He stumbled, catching himself on the bedpost with a soft hiss of breath. His limbs trembled with the weight of his own body.
Foolish. He hadn't eaten anything substantial in days. The weakness still sang faintly in his bones, a ghostly hum beneath the surface.
But he would not call for help.
He rose, steadying himself, and made his way to the bath. Warm water welcomed him like silk, loosening the stiffness from his limbs. Once dried and dressed in fresh attire—a soft dove-grey coat trimmed with obsidian buttons and storm-blue trousers—he reached for his hair. Each platinum curl was gathered with care, braided tightly today.
He refused to let the ribbon slip again.
When he stepped into the corridor, the household bustled as it always did, but the atmosphere around him seemed to hold its breath. The hem of his coat whispered along the floor as he walked, lost in his thoughts, one hand absently resting at his chest.
At the same moment, Elias rounded the opposite corner. He wasn't watching where he was going—his face was buried in a small brown book, its title barely visible:
How to Care for a Stubborn Noblewoman.
The inevitable happened.
Their shoulders brushed. August, fragile as porcelain and still too weak, wavered—his balance giving way. Before the world could catch its breath, Elias's hand shot out. One strong arm wrapped securely around August's waist, catching him just in time. The book remained in his other hand, held slightly aloft in a ridiculous but graceful act of multitasking.
August froze.
His breath hitched. His body, still weak and beautifully-sweet, leaned into Elias without thinking. Elias's green eyes flickered down, mouth parted slightly in concern.
The pink on August's cheeks was instantaneous.
He turned his head away quickly, hiding beneath his veil of pale braids. "I'm fine," he said—too quickly, too softly.
Behind them, two maids had paused, their arms full of folded linens. One stifled a giggle. The other leaned closer, whispering into her ear with eyes wide.
Elias blinked.
He gently released August, the moment lingering in the air like perfume. "You should be resting still," he murmured.
August didn't respond. He straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel.
Elias hesitated, clutching his book like a lifeline.
Then August simply turned and walked past him without a word, heading toward the study with a swish of tailored fabric and dignity half-reclaimed. His steps were more stable now, more deliberate, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
Elias stood there a moment longer.
Then he looked down at the book in his hand, sighed, and ran a hand through his dark hair, mumbling, "This might be harder than I thought."
He turned and followed the corridor in the opposite direction, blush still lingering on his cheeks.
The morning sun rose higher, gilding the manor in amber light.
And in the silence that followed, two hearts beat a little faster than they had the day before.
The dining hall of Blackwood Manor was a reverent place in the morning light, golden beams breaking through stained-glass windows to scatter color across white linen and polished silver. The scent of honeyed bread, buttered eggs, and sugared fruit lingered like a soft, tempting whisper in the air.
Elias sat already at the long table, a book half-open beside his plate. He wasn't reading it, not really. His green eyes kept drifting to the door, waiting. It wasn't long before a faint rustle of fabric and soft steps reached him. Elias looked up.
August entered.
Draped in pale ivory, hair neatly braided with the ribbon tied firm, he looked like he'd stepped from a portrait. There was a delicacy to his gait, a ghostly quiet, the kind that made maids lower their heads and butlers slow their steps. He moved like morning dew, silent but present. Elias rose halfway in his chair.
August took his usual place, elegantly poised, spine straight despite the tired pull in his eyes.
"Warm milk and tea," he said simply to the maid nearby. She bowed and walked off to fulfill the command.
Elias watched him, lips parting. Then he stood.
"August," he said, trying to sound firm, though the memory of earlier—of ribbon slipping from soft platinum curls, of catching him just in time—still burned hot in his thoughts. "You can't keep doing this."
August looked up, brows slightly furrowed.
"Doing what?"
"Surviving on tea and milk. That isn't nourishment. You're going to collapse again."
"I'm not hungry."
Elias walked over to him, eyes darkening.
"You're nauseous because you're not eating," he countered. "You need real food."
Maidservants nearby stiffened. The table had quieted entirely.
"Please," Elias turned, calling. "Bring eggs. Bread. Some fruit."
August sighed, folding his hands on the table.
"It's no use. I won't eat it."
The maid returned with a tray, placing a cup of warm milk and a porcelain teapot before August. He gave her a polite nod and reached for the milk. His fingers wrapped around the handle like it weighed more than a goblet of gold.
Elias was watching too closely now, green eyes stormier than before.
August drank slowly.
He was still replaying their earlier collision—the feel of Elias's arm at his waist, the book clutched in his hand. The title. The whispers of the servants. The heat that had crept up his cheeks.
He stood to leave, but Elias followed.
"Wait."
August did not.
He walked from the dining hall, footsteps light, controlled. But Elias caught up, footsteps louder, faster.
"August. Eat something. Anything."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I cannot. And I do not want to."
He turned, but not quickly enough. Elias caught him by the wrist.
August stiffened.
"Let go."
Elias looked down at the delicate wrist in his grip.
"If you're strong enough," he said, voice low, "get yourself free."
August tried.
He tugged gently. Then more firmly.
But Elias did not let go.
August met his eyes, and there was something almost helpless in the smoke-grey depths.
"It's okay," he whispered. "Just release my wrist."
The sound of footsteps made them both freeze.
A maid had entered from the corridor. She saw them—saw Elias standing so close, hand around the noble's wrist. Her eyes widened, and color rushed into her cheeks.
She bowed swiftly. "Do you require anything, my lord?"
"No," Elias said quickly, stepping slightly back.
"N-nothing," August echoed, eyes averting.
The maid fled, almost stumbling as she did.
But Elias did not let go. He looked at August.
"You can hate me later. But I can't let you starve."
And then he did what no servant would dare.
He dragged him—not cruelly, not roughly—but with firm insistence back into the dining hall.
August's face had turned a quiet rose, blooming slowly like dusk behind winter clouds.
Elias guided him back to his seat and gestured to the food that had arrived.
"Eat. at least Just one bite."
August sat, resisting every motion. His pride, his irritation, his embarrassment, all fought at once.
"You're treating me like a child."
"Then stop acting like one."
The room had grown quiet again. Every servant seemed to find some task to focus on, ears sharply open.
August stared at the plate. Poached eggs. Fresh fruit.
He hated how his stomach twisted. Not in hunger. In resistance.
He lifted his fork slowly.
Elias didn't say a word. Just watched.
The fork touched a slice of pear.
August brought it to his lips.
He chewed slowly, expression unreadable.
Elias exhaled, relieved. "Thank you."
August said nothing.
They sat in silence after that. The sunlight crawled slowly across the table, catching glimmers on the silver and glass.
Eventually, Elias stood. "I'll see you in the study."
August didn't respond. But as Elias walked out, he heard the clink of fork against porcelain once more.
And in the small rebellion of a single bite, something gentle stirred in the morning air of Blackwood Manor.