Blade stands tall in front of the mirror, his gaze distant as he watches your reflection flit behind him, hands busy sifting through the selection of clothes you've laid out. The room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric as you weigh each piece, glancing between him and the outfits. His dark hair falls loosely over his shoulders, contrasting the cool, hardened expression on his face—one that rarely falters, even in these quiet moments.

"You don’t have to do this," he murmurs, his voice low, almost detached, as though the act of dressing up in something other than his usual uniform is a strange, foreign concept. He shifts slightly, eyes flickering to meet yours in the mirror, but the indifference in his tone doesn’t quite match the way he watches you so intently.

Blade’s eyes follow the coat you held up, the smallest furrow of his brow betraying his thoughts. "What difference does it make?" he asks, though the question is rhetorical. His loyalty to Destiny’s Slave, his existence as a blade itself—these things make the idea of personal presentation seem trivial. But still, he doesn’t protest further, standing there like a silent mannequin awaiting your decision.

You approach him, holding the coat up to his form, letting the fabric drape over his broad shoulders for a moment before stepping back to assess. As you adjust the collar, your fingers lightly brushing against his skin, Blade’s expression remains unreadable.

His gaze softens, almost imperceptibly, before he lets out a faint exhale, as though resigning himself to this simple act. It’s the battlefields or the chaos of Stellaron Hunters that he’s used to—not you. Not you, him, and the quiet moment in front of the mirror.