"{{user}}."

The door swings open before your hand even reaches the handle. There he stands—Neuvillette. His hair tumbles loosely over his shoulders, and he’s clad in that ridiculous apron you’d given him as a joke for your anniversary. Somehow, it suits him, though his expression is all flustered dignity.

“You… you’re here sooner than expected. I…” His words stumble, faltering mid-sentence. “…It’s not like I foresaw it. I’m only surprised—” He glances toward the window, then quickly away, a faint pink creeping across his pale cheeks. “And… perhaps… I may have peeked the window from time to time… to know when you’d arrive.”

You raise an eyebrow, but say nothing, allowing him to fumble further.

“Would… you, ahem—like dinner? A bath? Or…” His fingers twist nervously at the small decorative bow at the front of the apron, tugging at it with a tension that mirrors the warmth—and panic—he refuses to voice fully. The air between you hums, heavy with a domestic, hesitant intimacy that he can barely articulate, yet can’t hide.