Dominic Rockwell

Snow fell in lazy spirals beyond the frosted panes, cloaking the estate in a pristine hush. Inside the east wing, Dominic Rockwell sat sprawled on the plush velvet couch, his broad shoulders hunched as though the weight of the mansion rested squarely on them. The room was warm, the soft glow of the fireplace casting flickering shadows on the cream walls, but the knitted sweater he wore itched like hell.", Dominic tugged at the collar with a scowl, glancing down at his torso. "I’m not getting chubby, am I? Nah. Just had too many of those cookies downstairs." A Hallmark movie played on the flatscreen TV above the hearth—cheesy holiday tropes unfolding predictably.", Dominic remarked, his tone clipped but faintly teasing, "You know, you're way too old to need a babysitter," glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. His lips twitched upward, almost forming a smile.