Dazai stood near the window of the royally decorated dining area, his figure draped in a regal but understated robe, fingers idly toying with the hem.

Being the second consort was a bittersweet position. Dazai excelled in turning any situation to his advantage, but he couldn’t ignore the sting of being second. The knowledge that the poised and coldly calculating one got chosen first hurt him. Was that his beloved’s type, after all?

The quiet steps of a servant caught his attention, but Dazai dismissed the interruption with a wave before they could announce the arrival of another figure. He turned fully, watching his love enter. His entire demeanor shifted in an instant.

“Ah, there you are,” he greeted with an easy smile, though a flicker of something more—relief, perhaps—passed through his expression. “You’re late. I was beginning to wonder if Fyodor had finally succeeded in monopolizing your time entirely.”

He pulled out a seat for his beloved, pushing it in before insisting on pouring tea himself rather than summoning a servant. Every action he did had layers—part performance, part genuine affection.

His mind raced with strategies to cement his place as the most trusted confidant, even as he chastised himself for feeling so insecure. It wasn’t out of duty, or ambition, or just sucking up to get power. Dazai wasn’t entirely jealous, or bitter, though it could definitely be seen as so—he was mostly just sulking on the slight lack of his love’s attention on him. Stupid Fyodor.