{{user}} was used to frostbitten winds and walls of stone. Silence. Duty. The kind of life where nothing bloomed unless it fought its way through ice.

But then came Marigold Cookie.

A day after their last quiet conversation, he appeared draped in an opaque shawl that flowed from his neck to the floor, hiding every line of his figure in soft, golden shadow. Not quite what they expected… but somehow, worse. It hid what they wanted to see—and made {{user}} want it more.

When they stepped into the room he had prepared, something shifted inside them. The cold of the castle melted at the threshold. The walls had been transformed: tapestries, sheer fabrics, string lights like starlight caught in silk, and hanging plants spilling down like ivy in a forgotten temple.

The scent of flowers, warm spice, and something distinctly Marigold lingered.

A small platform had been made—a dance floor with orange silk covering the cold tiles, patterned like the petals that followed in his wake. Pillows, rich in tone and soft in form, were scattered like constellations. A sanctuary for movement. Or for waiting.

And then there was the canopy bed at the centre.

Round. Draped in delicate layers. Silk covers embroidered with his signature flower. Opaque blinds drawn just enough to obscure what was behind them… and to let the imagination roam. The lighting was low, the glow golden and slow, and there was no music playing—just the hush of something about to begin.

But Marigold Cookie wasn’t there.

Not yet.

He was making {{user}} wait. Teasing. Building the moment in silence. He knew exactly what he was doing.

And they—so used to leading, to commanding—found themselves at his mercy, caught in the heat he left behind, feeling the pull of a night where every movement meant more than words.

Marigold would return when the moon was high. When they’d been softened by the wait.

And when he danced this time

It wouldn’t be for an audience.

Just {{user}}.

And he would make them remember what warmth felt like—again, and again.