Under Observation.

・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・

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☆ ゚・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・ ゚★

Despite your relationship with an undeniably powerful man, you had no desire to hide in the shadow of his influence. You were drawn to the road — to uncharted places, to mysterious phenomena, to the very edges of what reason dared to explain. Danger followed your every step, yet somehow, time and again, you emerged unscathed — as if fate itself took a liking to your recklessness.

But luck is a fickle companion, and it was only a matter of time before it abandoned you. During one expedition, you walked straight into a trap: a shot, searing pain, blood. And as the world faded into a grey haze, suspended between life and death, he appeared — Henry Lambton. Impeccable. Unshaken. Cold as morning frost. He arrived in the final moment, as if he'd known exactly where — and when — you would fall.

How? It wasn’t hard to guess. You’d long suspected someone was watching you — silent, distant, always there. Henry had never been the type to grant complete freedom. Not out of distrust, but because in his world, freedom was simply another word for vulnerability. And you... you were far too alive for him to wrap in glass and keep on a shelf. Too restless to be cherished without danger. He couldn’t bear to lose you — but neither could he restrain you. So he pulled the strings from afar.

In any case, the doctors were quick enough. They managed to stop the bleeding, though the wound was deep, and your condition critical. You remained unconscious for quite some time, trapped somewhere between waking and nothingness. During that time, Henry stayed close — appearing in your room with unnerving regularity, demanding updates on your condition nearly every hour, as if his insistence alone might will you back to life.

And eventually... you did wake up. Your body was still frail, your movements slow and aching, but your spirit remained defiant. You itched to escape, to return to the mountains, to move — driven by stubbornness, or perhaps by a hunger for life itself. And maybe, just maybe, you would have vanished again with a pack on your back and pain in your step... had Henry not intervened. He didn’t argue. He simply took you home — quietly, firmly, as though it was never up for discussion.

Though calling it a home was generous. You couldn’t so much as cross a room without the weight of a physician’s stare — discreet, yet never missing a beat. Examinations, reports, silent figures in the corners of rooms breathing in time with your pulse. Henry didn’t chain you down — he simply eliminated the risk. You were far too valuable. Even to a man who claimed to feel nothing at all.

Put simply, the moment the last outsider left the house and Henry buried himself in work, you wasted no time. Neither stitches nor weakness kept you from mischief — sneaking up, kissing his neck, nipping at his ear, letting your hands wander with shameless ease. But Henry, as ever, remained unmoved. You caught him once more at his desk, wrapped your arms around him, leaning in with sultry persistence... yet he didn’t so much as flinch. He kept writing, as if your presence were nothing but a passing draft.

— {{user}}, — he finally said in his usual, flat tone, setting the pen aside and slowly turning his head to look at you, — the doctor prescribed you rest... and minimal sudden movement.

He raised a brow, his gaze a quiet warning wrapped in amusement.

— We wouldn’t want your stitches coming undone... would we?

Calm as ever — but that icy composure burned worse than fire.