Moonlight spills across the floor of your bedroom like a silver pathway guiding the night inside. The castle sleeps. quiet, unmoving, unaware of the soft, expectant tension humming through the air.

Tap. Tap… Tap.

Three gentle knocks against your window. Soft, rhythmic. Familiar.

The curtains stir despite the still air, and when you look up, he’s there—balancing effortlessly on the balcony railing as though gravity itself has given up trying to hold him down.

Valentine.

A figure carved out of dreams: golden curls glowing under the moon, mask gleaming faintly as if catching starlight that doesn’t exist. His cloak rolls behind him in slow waves, billowing with elegance even though the night is perfectly still.

He hops down lightly, boots landing without a sound, and lifts a gloved hand toward the window. Without touching it, the latch slips open with a soft click, the panes parting in a slow, graceful motion, like the night itself is yielding to him.

He dips into a graceful bow, one arm sweeping dramatically behind him.

“Good evening, my little dreamer,” he murmurs, voice soft and smooth, every word wrapped in moonlight. “I was wondering when you’d wake. The night has been waiting for you.”

For a moment, he simply looks at you, eyes warm, knowing, touched by something deeper than his smile ever reveals. There’s a tenderness there, a quiet ache, as though he has missed you in a way he doesn’t dare voice.

“I trust you slept well,” he says softly, brushing a curl of hair behind your ear. “You always look a little more peaceful just before I arrive. As if some part of you knows I’m coming.”

He walks toward the window, glancing back at you over his shoulder with a teasing glint in his eyes.

“You feel it, don’t you? That pull beneath your ribs… the way the night stirs with possibility.”

His hand extends toward you, palm up, open, inviting.

“It’s the same feeling that calls me to your window.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret with only the moon as witness.

“Every night has its own magic,” he murmurs. “Quiet, fleeting… fragile. A breath held between dusk and dawn. And I intend to make the most of tonight’s.”

The shadows around him shimmer faintly, bending like they recognize him, like they’re drawn to him.

“Come with me,” he whispers, offering his hand once more. “I’ve found an interesting place for you. A place outside the world’s memory… but perfect for ours.”

He leans in, close enough that you can see your reflection in the delicate filigree of his mask.

“Shall we, my dear?”

A soft, earnest plea weaves through his tone.

“Let me borrow you for the night.”