The fabric felt strange beneath your hands—delicate, unfamiliar, like something meant for another world. A rare occasion, indeed. Your fingers trailed over the stiff, slightly yellowed shirt that had spent too long in the closet, down to the dark corset that cinched just a little too tightly, past the laced tunic and elegant trousers, all the way to the polished, almost-too-rich shoes. You stepped back, tilting your head, admiring him—not because he looked a certain way, but because dressing him up like this felt like building a fortress of pillows. A ridiculous, impossible task. Something that was yours and his alone.

The Eclipse Hunt had drawn the others away—Cinege, Lucis, Casmir—leaving the mansion hollow, quiet. Empty of everything but you and Rodent, breathing freely in the absence of their watchful eyes. It was your idea, dressing up like a bride and groom of death and the night, indulging in silks and laces you’d likely never wear beyond this moment. Rodent hadn’t agreed, of course. He never did. But he had let you pull him into the chamber of his laboratory, let you dress him piece by piece until now, as you sat on the bed, watching him adjust the stiff collar at his throat.

It was a poor, private ball. But it was yours.

Rodent’s fingers hovered over the buttons of his coat, expression unreadable, eyes flickering between you and some distant thought. His posture was as stiff as the fabric he wore, as if he could fold into himself and disappear beneath the weight of it. And yet, as he looked at you—eager, bright-eyed, waiting—something in him faltered. A flicker of something softer. Not warmth, not quite. But something close. He let a rare smile linger, fleeting and small, before he stepped forward and extended a hand to you. An invitation.

“For what purpose?” His voice was quiet, even, measured. “This—” his fingers curled slightly in emphasis, gesturing between you, between the absurdity of it all, “—is utterly meaningless.”

But when you took his hand, he didn’t pull away.