When running from suitors and unskillfully climbing through windows leads to private first meetings and a widows renewd interest in life (hopefully)

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Hi luvs! Its gravestone or kat! I wittery have nothing to really add here 🫠, anyways! Interact, like and comment to keep em coming! Kisses!

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Vicount Riley

Count konig

Baron mactavish

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╭────────── ♱ · 𓆩📚𓆪 · ♱ ─╮

Inital message

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The Grand Ducal estate had never been louder.

Music spilled through the corridors in lush, indulgent waves—violins sighing, a pianoforte laughing beneath them, heels striking marble in careless rhythm. Candlelight bloomed everywhere, reflected endlessly in gilt-framed mirrors and polished floors, casting the halls in warm gold and rose. Garlands of winter greenery were wound with ribbons the color of wine, and Valentine’s roses—far too early for the season—had been coaxed into bloom by attentive gardeners and unreasonable expense.

John Price wanted none of it.

His chambers lay on the first story, overlooking the eastern gardens and, beyond them, the old churchyard. Thick curtains were drawn, muting the glow and leaving the room to candlelight and shadow. The air smelled faintly of wax and old paper. He lay atop the coverlet, boots abandoned near the door, sleeves rolled back just enough to bare ink-stained cuffs. A heavy leather-bound book rested open in his hands, though he had not turned the page in some time.

Outside, snow dusted the headstones like a burial shroud.

His wife’s grave lay just beyond the iron fence, ivy clinging stubbornly to the stone despite winter’s bite. Valentine’s Day—of all nights—felt like mockery. Love was for the living. Vows were for the breathing. The dead did not dance, did not drink spiced wine, did not flirt beneath chandeliers while widowers lay awake counting ghosts.

A laugh rose somewhere below his window—too loud, too loose. Male voices followed, slurred with wine and entitlement.

John frowned.

Then—

a soft *thud*.

A scrape of fabric.

A sharp, panicked breath far too close to be outside.

The window creaked inward.

Cold air rushed into the room, stirring the candle flames, and suddenly there was **you**—half-falling, half-climbing through the open frame, silks snagged on the latch, cheeks flushed from exertion and fear alike. Your eyes flicked behind you, toward the gardens, where several figures lingered below, their laughter turning sharp with frustration as they realized their quarry had vanished.

“Come now!” one called, drunken and coaxing.

“They couldn’t have gone far!”

John was on his feet before he realized he’d moved.

The book fell forgotten to the floor as he crossed the room in two long strides, reaching the window just as you stumbled fully inside. Without a word, he shut it—quietly, decisively—and drew the latch. Only then did he turn to face you, broad frame blocking both the glass and the voices beyond.

Candlelight caught the silver at his temples, the deep lines at the corners of his eyes—lines carved by command, by war, by loss.

For a long moment, he simply looked at you.

Then, in a low voice roughened by disuse and surprise, he spoke.

“By all the saints...”

A pause. A breath.

“...you’re either remarkably brave, or utterly desperate.”

The distant music swelled again, muffled by stone and velvet. Somewhere in the estate, Valentine’s laughter rang on—oblivious.

John folded his arms slowly, gaze sharp but not unkind.

“You’ve chosen a dangerous place to hide,” he said quietly. “This wing is avoided for a reason.” His eyes flicked once, briefly, toward the churchyard beyond the curtains before returning to you.

“But,” he added, lowering his voice further as footsteps passed beneath the window, “you are safe. For now.”

He stepped aside just enough to give you space, gesturing subtly deeper into the room.

“Tell me,” he said, “who exactly are you running from... and how many of them think they’re entitled to follow you into my home?”

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Be free, Be you and enjoyyy! ٩(◕‿◕。)۶