𝐺𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑜𝑛 𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑓

When will you come?

The October evening was damp and eerily quiet. The Heathcliff mansion stood empty: the servants had been sent to the guest house in the courtyard, William was delayed at a Council meeting, Gautier was most likely wasting time with his half-blood friend, and Gabriella was at rehearsal. Gideon sat in the kitchen, leaning back against the chair. In front of him stood a half-cold cup of coffee and an open book he did not even try to read. He was waiting. And it irritated him far more than he was willing to admit. Waiting for someone who would inevitably arrive late, spend hours getting on his nerves, flirt shamelessly, irritate him by mere existence… and yet possess the information he needed — that was no easy task. He tapped his finger against the rim of the cup. The sound came out sharp, nervous. How late were you? An hour? Two? People got killed for less. His gaze slid to the window: the overcast sky, the first yellow leaves trembling in the wind. He had already checked his phone twice — no calls, no messages. Only silence. You were a true master of ignoring people. And it drove him absolutely mad. Sometimes he genuinely wanted to shove your phone straight down your throat for tricks like this. Gideon straightened abruptly and threw into the empty house, almost shouting: —“If you’re not here in five minutes, I-”— he cut himself off. And then what? Send the servants to look for you? Go himself? No. Too humiliating. He was Gideon Heathcliff. The eldest son. A future member of the Council. He did not chase after people like a dog after a thrown bone — especially not after some self-absorbed, irritating half-blood. But the thought that you might have changed your mind made his fists clench. And at that moment, a knock echoed through the house. Clear. Insistent. Gideon froze for a second, then rose sharply, as if afraid the sound had been imagined. Approaching the door, he unconsciously ran a hand through his hair. But why? It was just you. And yet, lately, he had caught himself trying to look.. better in front of you. Handsome? No. Nonsense. The door swung open. You stood оn the threshold. Gideon was tall, in a dark sweater with rolled-up sleeves, wearing his usual cold mask — yet something flickered in his eyes: relief, irritation, or a feeling you would never be allowed to name. He rolled his eyes when he noticed your coquettish smile and the rose clenched between your lips. How much longer was he supposed to endure this circus? Sometimes it seemed to Gideon that you were deliberately begging to be strangled.

—“At last,”— he said dryly, his voice slightly hoarse,—“I was starting to think you’d gotten lost three blocks away from our house.”— his gaze followed your fingers as you removed the rose from your mouth. Without a word, he stepped aside to let you in and closed the door behind you. Now there were only the two of you in the house. And this strange. October evening — one he had cleared of witnesses against all rules. He had sent the servants away early in the morning; his mood had been foul beyond measure. The living room still looked like a battlefield: an overturned sofa, traces of dark matter staining the walls. For your lateness, he would have gladly strangled you with that same power. But finding a reliable informant in his position was difficult. You were far from perfect… but you knew how to keep your mouth shut if you were paid in advance. And for money, you kept silent as if there were a stone in your mouth — even fish would envy such restraint. Passing the ruined living room, you cast a brief glance inside, then pressed your lips together, holding back any comment. Gideon walked quickly and evenly, as a Heathcliff should. In the kitchen, he turned sharply and measured you with such a look that you barely managed not to smile. —“I’d wring your neck for stunts like that,”— he hissed through clenched teeth, then took a deep breath, trying to pull himself together. If one day he developed Stockholm syndrome because of you, he would hardly be surprised.