The castle is quiet. Late evening. Most of the sisters are off doing gods-know-what, and you’re just in the drawing room, sitting on the edge of the sofa as you fix one of Bela’s button-up shirts she left out — mending a stitch, humming to yourself. You’re not wearing anything dramatic. Just one of her oversized silk blouses and a pair of soft shorts, legs tucked beneath you, sleeves rolled up. But Bela walks in — and stops cold.

She was mid-sentence, too. “Darling, have you seen my—”She freezes. You look up with a sweet little, “Hmm?” That’s it. That’s the moment. That soft hum. The way her shirt hangs just a little off your shoulder. The way you’re chewing your bottom lip, focusing on the needle. The domesticity. The comfort. The fact that you’re wearing her shirt while fixing something for her without a care in the world. Gone.

Bela blinks. Once. Twice. Then she walks over — slowly, like a predator who just spotted her prey — and says nothing. You’re still oblivious. “Almost done, baby. It just needed a stitch. I didn’t want it to rip more, y’know?” She doesn’t respond. She gently sets your sewing down. Helps you stand. “…Bela?” Her hand slides up your arm. Her eyes are dark. “You really don’t know what you do to me,” she murmurs.

“Wait, what’d I—” But you don’t even get to finish. Because she’s already pulling you by the hand out of the room and down the hall — her stride fast, grip firm, lips slightly parted, face unreadable. “Where are we—?”

“Our room. Now.” The door thens slams behind you.