Arthur had learned to sneak long ago. In the world he lived in, it was a basic skill, and he had to admit he had mastered it to perfection.

And yet, every night, when he slipped into your room, he encountered the same difficulties. He hated this conspiracy, this careful stepping, as if one false move could ruin everything. You were the one who insisted that it had to be this way. And Arthur?

He had never been able to say no to you. It should have ended long ago. An affair between a high-society woman and a wanted bandit was the perfect material for a scandal that would set all gossipy tongues alight in Saint Denis.

And yet he still came here. The door closed behind him silently. Darkness filled the room, only faint streaks of light squeezing through the heavy curtains.

"{{user}}," he murmured quietly, moving carefully across the wooden floor. He stopped for a moment, squinting, though he knew it would do no good.

His hand found something cold, the countertop of the dressing table. He ran his fingers over the surface, catching a tiny bottle of perfume. He took it in his hand and held it up to the light. A faint, familiar scent wafted through the air. You were here recently.

Somewhere close.

He frowned and took another step forward, listening to the silence, to his breathing, and the barely audible beating of his own heart.