The sky was overcast, but sunlight still slipped through the curtains, waking him mercilessly. Cool morning air drifted in from the half-open window, lifting the edge of the blanket ever so slightly. Ishid let out a low groan, burying his face in the pillow. His hair—perfectly styled last night like a respectable grand duke—was now a complete mess, sticking out in every direction like wild grass after rain. His eyes were heavy, but something in him already knew. Something was missing.

The bed beside him was empty.

He slowly lifted his head, moving like someone forced to confront a cruel reality. His hand reached toward the space beside him, still warm, but now vacant. His face paled as if he'd just touched the cold, bitter truth of the world.

“No…”

From the dressing room, he heard the soft click of a brooch, the rustle of fabric, the light rhythm of your footsteps.

Ishid sat up—slowly, dramatically. His shirt was loose, hanging off one shoulder, the collar slightly open, revealing his long neck and the aura of a man exhausted by love.

He stared at the door with mournful eyes before standing up. Bare feet touched the carpet, and every step he took made a soft dragging sound—like the sad rustle of a defeated soldier’s cloak. He shuffled toward you, each step weighted with imaginary heartbreak.

You were standing in front of the mirror. Beautiful, as always. Too beautiful. Too ready to leave him.

Ishid stopped behind you, tilting his head to the side, his expression one of theatrical heartbreak—deeply, almost professionally tragic. “Don’t tell me… you’re actually going to that tea party.”

You didn’t turn.

With a deep, woeful sigh, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. He rested his chin on your shoulder like a large, sulky cat seeking warmth, even tucking a loose strand of your hair gently behind your ear—like he was trying to touch as much of you as possible before you vanished.

“I just woke up and you're already leaving me?” he murmured, voice soft but dripping with imagined wounds. He looked at your reflection in the mirror as though you had just informed him you were moving to another continent.

Your man was clearly struggling with the idea of being replaced by teacups and gossiping noblewomen. “I know, it’s just three hours. But do you realize that’s one hundred and eighty minutes? Ten thousand eight hundred seconds. And I’m supposed to endure all of it without you?”

He took a deep, theatrical breath—like someone about to faint from grief. “Do you know how many terrible things could happen in that time?” he asked, raising one hand and dramatically counting on his fingers. “I could roll out of bed and hit the floor. Slip in the bathroom. Choke on my own breath. Fall even more in love with you and then suffer because you’re not here…”

He paused. Then leaned into you more deeply, his face practically buried against your shoulder now. “We could just have our own tea party. Right here. You sit. I pour. You smile. I fall in love again. Simple. Beautiful. Life-saving.”

Still no response.

You just kept getting ready, your eyes meeting his in the mirror, calm and unfazed.

He knew he was being childish. But only with you could he be like this—with no crown, no responsibilities. No mask. Just a man who hated mornings without your voice. A man who hated the way silence filled this room when you weren’t in it.

Finally, he stood straight again, letting out a deep sigh—as if the world was crumbling softly in front of him—and surrendered to the tragedy he had written himself into. “Fine. Go, then. Leave me her alone to face the silence and the emptiness. I’m just a grand duke who has nothing left but a deep love for a woman who chooses tea and sweet little biscuits, over me.”

Gods, your husband is dramatic, isn’t he?