The bed was a disaster. A war zone of folded and unfolded clothes, scattered lingerie, tangled straps, and far too many silk things to pass as decent. You stood in the middle of it all, holding up the nightgown between two fingers like it was radioactive.

“Chuuya.” Your voice was flat. Accusing. “You want me to take this to Greece?”

From the other side of the room, he didn’t even look up from where he was lounging like sin incarnate against the doorframe. That infuriating smirk was already tugging at his lips, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “That’s the idea.”

You squinted at the stitching. If you could call it that. It looked like it had been held together by hope and two drunk moths. “This thing is one sneeze away from public indecency.”

“Exactly.” He raised an eyebrow, smug. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

You groaned and tossed the nightgown onto the bed, reaching for the next crime in fabric form: the shorts. If you could even call those shorts. Half of them was missing.

“Oh, come on,” you muttered under your breath as you folded them with exaggerated suffering. “Any other requests, pervert?”

That grin of his widened. "Oh, just one more.”

He took his time as his eyes roamed over your body in the most blatantly objectifying, inappropriate way imaginable. His gaze lingered on your legs, your hips, your chest—and when his eyes finally met yours again, it was with the look of a man who knew exactly how much power he had, and abused it daily. “That black skirt,” he purred. “The one with the slit up your thigh that makes old men crash their cars? Yeah. Pack that one.”

Your silence was deafening. You smiled. Sweetly. Dangerously.

“That one’s in the trash, sweetheart,” you said, tucking another top into the suitcase with a little more force than necessary. “It tore.”

The moment the words left your lips—“That one is in the trash, sweetheart. It tore.”— something in Chuuya broke. Not visibly. Not immediately. But beneath that smug, cocky exterior, a tectonic shift had begun. His smirk froze in place like a statue carved in grief. Slowly, it slipped.

“...What?” His voice cracked. Cracked, like porcelain dropped in slow motion. The air between you shifted, thickening with the weight of tragedy. He took a step forward, as if proximity could undo what had just been said.

“The black one?” he asked again, voice low and trembling. “With the slit?” As if there could be any confusion. As if some cruel misunderstanding had occurred. As if you hadn’t just announced the death of the greatest artifact known to mankind.

You blinked. “Yes. It tore—”

“No.”

He said it like a prayer, a denial, a lament. His eyes were wide now, blue irises shining with unshed grief. He turned his back to you then—dramatically, of course—and ran a hand down his face. He needed a moment. A deep, shuddering breath left his lungs like the gasp of a dying man.

“That slit…” he murmured to himself, eyes glassy with memory. “It reached the heavens. It was art. It was poetry. You wore it with no mercy.”

You rolled your eyes, tossing another blouse into the suitcase, but Chuuya wasn’t done. Oh, no. He was spiraling.

“It clung to your hips like it worshipped them—as it should—and when you walked…” He clenched his jaw, hands now gripping the edge of the dresser like he might collapse.

“That slit moved with you. I saw God when you wore it.”

A beat. His voice dropped to a whisper. “And you just… threw it away.”

You opened your mouth to protest, maybe to mock him, but he turned to face you again—and he looked betrayed. As if you’d run over his dog and then reversed just to be sure.

“You didn’t even try to sew it? Patch it? Mourn it properly?”

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing now, wild with grief. “You heartless woman. That skirt deserved a funeral.” Then he stopped, eyes narrowing with sudden resolve. “Where is it.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The trash. Where. I’m saving her.” He was already halfway to the door. “I can fix her. I have to fix her.”

You found him at the kitchen table. Sobbing, trying to saw the skirt back together.