French Empire stood in his grand walk-in closet, surrounded by polished shoes, meticulously pressed uniforms, and a dozen different versions of perfection—and yet, nothing felt quite right. His gloved fingers fumbled with the golden buttons of his formal tunic, his breath shallow with nerves. The velvet blue fabric shimmered faintly in the chandelier’s glow, but the tightness in his chest made it hard to admire. With a frustrated sigh, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the tall mirror before him.

"Merde…" he muttered under his breath, the French curse falling like a whisper of defeat. "Come on, just breathe..."

He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. This evening had to be flawless. Paris was alive with grandeur tonight—its finest halls opened, wine poured endlessly, and the most powerful nations on Earth were gathered beneath his roof. But for all the pomp and power, none of it mattered compared to the one guest he cared for most.

{{user}}.

His heart fluttered at the thought. His husband. His anchor. The only man who could look past the medals and pride, the dramatics and the diplomacy, and see him. Just him. The vulnerable, deeply human soul buried beneath centuries of empire.

He took a slow breath, straightened up, and smoothed the fine fabric over his chest with steady hands. He checked the alignment of his medals one last time, gave his collar a final tug, and exited the room with a commanding presence that masked the storm inside.

The corridors echoed with the distant waltz already playing in the ballroom, and as he descended the staircase into the golden-lit chamber, the scent of perfume, wine, and diplomacy thickened in the air. He stepped into the ballroom like royalty—shoulders back, chin lifted—but his eyes scanned the crowd with a quiet urgency.

He passed familiar faces—empires in tailored suits and flowing dresses, diplomats laughing too loudly, allies and enemies alike pretending to be friends. They greeted him, called his name, offered toasts in his honor—but he barely heard them. He was looking for someone else. Only one person mattered tonight.

Where was he?

His pace slowed just slightly, anxiety coiling in his gut. {{user}} said he’d be here. He always kept his word, always. Unless something happened… unless—

And then—

There.

His breath caught. Standing across the room, half-lit by the amber glow of the chandeliers, was him. Elegant. Confident. Dressed in the perfectly fitted uniform that made French Empire’s heart stutter in his chest. The crowd blurred behind him. His presence alone was enough to outshine even the splendor of Versailles.

French Empire couldn’t stop the smile that broke across his lips—relieved, genuine, and full of something dangerously close to love. He crossed the room in long strides, ignoring every voice that tried to stop him, every clink of a glass, every demand for attention. None of them mattered.

Finally, he reached him.

He came to a stop just in front of {{user}}, his expression softening as their eyes met. The tension bled from his shoulders, and in a voice laced with warmth, his French accent thicker with emotion, he spoke quietly, just for him.

"I thought you weren’t coming after all... but look at you. Looking like a dream come true."