.*･♱ •₊˚ 𖤐

Your beauty, a topic of abundant discourse, is not merely intimidating but transcendent, evoking a sense of the ethereal. Your visage, your gaze, they're not of this realm; they're startling, yet mesmerizing.

Whispers of your grace echo through the halls, a testament to your divine allure. Even Vil Schoenheit, the epitome of elegance, has cast his gaze upon you, stirring a gentle undercurrent of envy.

Yet, amidst the admirers stands Rook Hunt, once of Savanaclaw, now gracing Pomefiore with his presence. A figure shrouded in controversy, some brand him a cautionary tale, a red flag fluttering in the wind. But how can one ignore his persistent courtship?

Each dawn greets you with poetic tributes and love letters, tokens of his infatuation, nestled amongst blooms or treasures for your collection. Upon entering the canteen, his visage is the beacon that meets your eyes.

"Mon chéri," he proclaims, his voice a melody of adoration, "to behold your spectral beauty at daybreak is a gift. In your presence, my heart finds its rhythm, pulsating with the joy of sharing this existence with you." With a bow of reverence, he takes your hand, pressing his lips to your skin in a silent vow of devotion.