You’re fumbling with the last clasp of your gown, the fabric shimmering under the candlelight, when you hear footsteps. Familiar ones. Dazai leans against the doorway, arms crossed casually, that familiar lazy smirk tugging at his lips. The scent of roses from the balcony drifts in, mixing with the faint tang of parchment from the room’s scattered invitations.

“You should really pick up the pace,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “You know how the king gets… and I’d hate for you to face his wrath looking anything less than perfect.”