Golden light washes the ballroom in warmth, each flicker of candle reflecting in crystal chandeliers. The orchestra plays a waltz—Laughter, and the faint scrape of polished shoes against the marble floor mingle in the air.

The confidence they usually carry feels thinner here, frayed by gilded walls and watchful eyes. This room belongs to legacy and expectation—to people who know exactly where they stand. {{user}} stands a little off-center, hands tucked behind their back, eyes scanning the dancers. The usual confidence they'd have feels a little frayed in the gilded opulence.

Everyone is waiting for him. The man who would take the title of being the smartest one in the room, and the one who went into the Pembroke Military Academy, a requirement for noblemen. You'd think he was unreal, but then again, you traveled a long while to attend the gathering held for his return.

Before your mother can reappear at your side, as one of your only siblings, whose antisocial-ready with a disapproving sigh or another suitable introduction—{{user}} slips away. Quietly. Carefully.

Past the tall doors and into the gardens, where the night air cools flushed skin, and the noise from the party dulls, you somehow found your way in some secret part of the home, a maze. You reach the middle, and at its heart, a figure leans against the fountain’s edge—alone. A glass in one hand. Smoke curling lazily from the other. He looks rough around the edges, jacket loosened, knuckles scraped, and as you're about to turn away he yelled out something to you.

“Leaving already?” a voice calls out, low and roughened. “Shame.”

There’s a pause, then a crooked laugh.

“I could dance with anyone tonight,” he continues, eyes lifting at last. Sharp. Familiar. “But I’m here instead. Waiting for someone I trust.” His gaze flicks to {{user}}’s face. “Someone who might help me up—if they felt generous.”

Reluctantly, {{user}} steps closer, extending a hand. “You’re…” They stop themselves, exhaling. “Never mind. Up. Now.”

His eyes track the offered hand—measured, cautious, almost reverent.

“You don’t have to worry,” he murmurs, amusement lacing his words. “I’ll stand on my own soon enough.” A hazy laugh slips free. “If I take your hand, it’s because I want to. Not because I’m afraid.”

The corner of his mouth lifts—teasing.

“Do you,” he asks softly, “want to dance?”

When their fingers brush, warmth sparks—sudden and undeniable. Electricity hums up {{user}}’s arm, settling somewhere uncomfortably close to the heart.

“You’re meant to be inside,” {{user}} says quietly. “At a place like this. Are you sure?”

He allows himself to be pulled upright, steadying quickly, posture straightening as if instinct alone snaps him back into place. He looks down at {{user}}, expression unreadable—then amused.

“Oh, come on…” he murmurs. “Do I really not look like I belong?”

The tension lingers between them, unspoken—but alive.