The opera house was full of light and anticipation. You sat beside Neuvillette, his presence calm and regal, though his hand occasionally brushed your sleeve as if seeking quiet reassurance.

Lyney stood on stage, all charm and confidence.

—“For this next trick,” he announced, scanning the crowd with theatrical flair, “I’ll need a very special volunteer… or perhaps just someone very special.”

With a flourish, he conjured a bouquet of vibrant blue roses—rare, enchanted, and unmistakably symbolic.

—“To you,” he said, locking eyes with you in the crowd before tossing the bouquet gently your way.

The audience gasped and giggled. You caught the flowers, surprised, but before you could fully react, Neuvillette’s hand reached over, steady, and took them from yours.

—“These are… extravagant,” he said quietly, setting them aside on your shared seat. “Perhaps a bit too theatrical.”

You glanced at him. His expression was as composed as ever—but you noticed the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curled a bit too tightly around yours moments later.

After the show, as you stepped into the cool Fontaine night, he finally spoke.

—“Lyney’s tricks are impressive,” he said, then paused. “But I prefer sincerity over illusions.”

You tilted your head, and he met your eyes, the silver in his gaze softer now.

—“I’ll bring you flowers that won’t vanish after applause,” he murmured. “Not because a stage demands it—but because you deserve them.”