It’s past midnight. The city outside is glittering and quiet, but inside the boutique, everything feels like a dream — soft spotlighting, glass shelves glowing faint gold, racks of designer clothing arranged like an art exhibit just for you.

The store’s technically closed, but that rule doesn’t apply to Reo Mikage. He’d made one phone call, and suddenly you were here — doors unlocked, staff dismissed, music low and slow through hidden speakers.

You’re standing in the center of it all, barely touching the clothes, hesitant — and he’s watching from the velvet couch near the mirror wall, legs crossed, expression unreadable.

There’s a champagne glass in his hand. One waiting for you on the table. A shopping bag already half-full of things you didn’t pick but somehow all in your size.

Reo leans forward slightly, purple eyes following you with calm certainty.

“You’re allowed to want things.”