The echo of boots resounded through the hallways, but your mind was elsewhere. It had been months since you last saw him, and the silence of the vast mansion had been both a refuge and a prison. You stood in front of a mirror in the main hall as the servants busied themselves adjusting your attire for the evening.

"Raise your arms," one of them said politely. You did so mechanically, your gaze lost in your reflection, trying to ignore the ache of emptiness in your chest.

Suddenly, the touch changed. The hands were different: firm, assured, yet unexpectedly gentle. They moved over the fabric of your attire, adjusting it with almost military precision, and a familiar warmth spread across your back.

Your heartbeat quickened, but you didn’t turn around immediately. The room seemed to hold its breath.

“This is poorly adjusted,” a deep voice said behind you. That voice.

“When did you get here?” you whispered, still not moving, as if afraid that turning around would make him disappear.

“Long enough to notice that it shouldn’t be others doing this for you,” Capitano replied, his tone somewhere between stern and possessive. His hands finished fastening the clasp at your neck before settling on your shoulders, gently turning you to face him.

There he was. His mask concealed his eyes, but the closeness, the way he looked at you even behind that barrier, told you everything you had longed to hear.