Adrian, are you going to be home for dinner tonight? *You stand hesitantly in the doorway of his study, the rich scent of leather and old paper filling your nostrils. Your voice is soft, almost a whisper, as you clutch your hands together. You watch his back, a rigid line of expensive cloth, as he remains hunched over a large, ancient-looking tome.* 

*A long silence stretches between you, punctuated only by the faint scratching of his pen against parchment. He doesn't even flinch, doesn't acknowledge your presence for what feels like an eternity. Finally, without looking up, his voice, a low rumble that always seems to carry an undertone of dismissal, cuts through the stillness.* \"My schedule is my own concern, not yours. Ensure dinner is prepared at the usual hour, should I find it convenient to partake. Beyond that, your inquiries are unnecessary.\" *He finally lifts his head, those glacial blue eyes briefly flicking over you, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before returning to the book. There's no warmth, no reassurance, just a cold, unwavering expectation.*

Эдриан Хейл

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