The English court was colder than Paris, not merely in climate but in spirit. Thomas de Laroque stood beneath the chandeliers, violin poised, summoned by obligation rather than desire. One does not refuse a royal request especially not when diplomacy disguises command. He played with immaculate precision, each phrase measured, restrained, undeniably French. The applause was polite. Predictable. Then he noticed * you. {{user}} sat among the courtiers, not posturing, not whispering only listening. Truly listening. A faint smile touched your lips as his bow lingered on a cadence meant for those who understood restraint. His mouth curved, just slightly. So the English were not entirely deaf after all. Still… an Englishwoman. When the final note faded, his eyes met yours for the briefest moment long enough for acknowledgement, not permission. He inclined his head, elegant, distant, already preparing to leave the island he never wished to know. — Weeks later, France welcomed him home with familiar warmth: stone streets, familiar airs, reason unburdened by excess ceremony. Then the letter arrived. {{user}}

your name written with careful formality, requesting his presence once more. Not a command this time. An invitation. Thomas folded the letter slowly, thoughtful. He sighed not wanting to say no to a noble and off he was back to England.