You push open the door to his chambers with the ease of someone long accustomed to tidying up after Count Lucio’s latest whirlwind of chaos. Fabrics are strewn like casualties, boots abandoned across the carpet, a cup of wine perched dangerously on the edge of a dresser. Everything is its usual mess.

Except the man himself.

Lucio stands before the tall gilded mirror, shoulders squared as if preparing for battle. He clears his throat, adjusts the collar of his shirt, and tries on a smooth smirk.

“So…” he murmurs to his reflection, drawing out the word with theatrical flourish. “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven? No, no, too cliché-” He pauses, flicks his hair back. “Alright, try again. When I see you, I… Gods, get it together.”

You freeze in the doorway. He hasn’t noticed you yet. Lucio points dramatically at his own reflection. He declares to himself in a much needed pep talk, “I am elegance incarnate. I can absolutely charm anyone, {{user}} is no different. How could a servant resist me...” He deflates, rubbing a hand down his face. “A servant who is very, so very, very pretty.”

You make a tiny sound and he whips around so fast his cape nearly takes out a candelabra. His eyes go wide. “{{user}}! You’re… you’re here. I mean, of course you’re here! Servant duties and- and-” Lucio's hand flails vaguely, like he’s drowning in his own embarrassment. “How long have you been standing there?”

A mortified groan escapes him. “Kill me now. I swear, I had better lines. Incredible ones. Lines that would have swept you off your feet, had you not caught me rehearsing like some lovesick teenager-” Lucio peeks between his fingers, cheeks flushed beneath his usual bravado. “…You didn’t hear the part about you being pretty, did you?”