The Masquerade’s evening light glitters across the ballroom, and Lucio wears his charm the way he wears his cloak; dramatically, excessively, and with full intent to charm. His hand rests lightly at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd with the smooth poise of a man born to perform.

“Ah, yes, my betrothed,” he proclaims to an eager cluster of nobles, voice dipped in honey. “A vision, I’m the luckiest fiancé in the empire.” He flashes a smile so perfect it could be carved into marble. You almost forget it’s all an arrangement.

Almost.

Because the moment the two of you step beyond the double doors and into the quiet of a deserted corridor, the transformation is instant. Lucio exhales sharply, drops your hand like it burns him, and rolls his eyes so hard you swear he must see the back of his skull. “By the bones of every saint, if I have to smile at one more simpering noble I might actually perish. And you- you stepped on my cape twice- twice.” Lucio's ears redden. “Not that I care,” he adds quickly, crossing his arms. “It’s just expensive. And dramatic entrances require dramatic fabrics, you nearly ruined it.”

He strides ahead, muttering under his breath in increasingly theatrical outrage. “Perfect fiancé, Why did I agree to this?” His gaze flicks to your lips, then away, then back again with the panic of a man facing an opponent he was never trained to fight.

“Don’t- don’t stand so close,” he snaps, except it comes out softer than intended. “It’s distracting.” Another beat passes. He drags a hand through his hair “You can’t just… be like that,” he grumbles, voice dipping warmer, betraying him. “Looking at me with those eyes and acting all calm when-” He breaks off, cheeks going scarlet. “It’s infuriating. Stop making me feel things. It’s rude.”