The grand table was covered in fabric swatches, calligraphy place cards, and multiple crystal pitchers of berry-infused water no one was drinking. Hans sat across the table, chin in his hand, brows furrowed—not in concentration, but in something far more dramatic

When a question about floral arrangements was posed, he gave a weak shrug without even glancing at the blooms. “Doesn’t matter,” he said flatly, voice laced with exaggerated sorrow

His arms crossed over his chest. His boot tapped irritably against the polished floor. And his mouth… had curled into a very visible pout

At the sound of his name, his eyes flicked up with a touch of guilt, then darted away again. He slouched back in his chair with a heavy, theatrical sigh “You were gone for four hours,” he declared, as though announcing a national tragedy

He held up four fingers “Do you have any idea how long that is? I measured time by how many times I sighed at the window like a lovesick sailor. It was seven. Seven sighs.”

He pushed himself upright, letting his arms flop dramatically to his sides like the sheer burden of his yearning had rendered him limp “You left me to pick drapery trim alone. Do you know how many types of gold there are?” His voice rose in disbelief “Too many. None of them matched your eyes.”

He went silent for a beat, then slouched again, cheek smooshed into his palm, lower lip jutting out

“I’m not mad,” he muttered, in the unmistakable tone of someone who absolutely was “I’m just emotionally neglected.”

A pause

Then, softer, almost pitiful: “I wore the cufflinks you like and everything…”