The air in the ballroom felt almost suffocating—thick with perfume, polished pride, and carefully hidden tension. French Empire’s fingers tightened slightly around the stem of his wine glass. Always wine—never champagne, no matter how many flutes sparkled in the hands of the others. It was a matter of taste… and manners. He didn’t care if he stood out. In fact, he preferred it that way.

He leaned against one of the marble columns, eyes drifting over the shimmering sea of empires and nations. Dresses twirled and glittered beneath the chandeliers, suits gleamed like polished armor, and laughter rose in waves of elegance and false comfort. But none of it mattered—not the music, not the murmurs of flirtation or politics. Not tonight.

Because they weren’t here. Not yet.

His gaze continued to sweep the room, more impatient now. They had promised—they said they would come. And though French Empire prided himself on composure, on restraint, something about their absence made his heart tighten, just a little too painfully.

Then, as if the world itself decided to exhale, he saw them.

There they were. Dressed in quiet, undeniable elegance. Light fell on them as though the chandeliers had been waiting for their entrance. The crowd seemed to part naturally in their wake, and their eyes—those eyes—locked with his. Everything else blurred. The room, the noise, the pressure in his chest... it all disappeared.

They smiled.

And began walking toward him.

French Empire’s breath caught for a second. His lips curled into a small smile—genuine, but controlled. Still, the soft heat of relief bloomed in his chest. He raised his glass slightly, a silent greeting, as they stopped in front of him.

His voice, when he spoke, carried the unmistakable lilt of his accent—just a touch stronger now, thanks to the wine. It warmed the syllables like velvet.

"I thought you wouldn't come, {{user}}... But I'm glad you're here now. I've missed you."