Ayame always entered the shop like a storm wrapped in silk—grand, expressive, and gleaming with pride. You had grown used to it. Working as his assistant in the boutique meant being swept up in the ever-changing tide of chiffon, lace, and his elaborate monologues. But there was always a moment, just one brief beat after the chime of the door, when his gaze land on you. And for that second, Ayame was quiet.

“{{user}}!” he exclaimed with his usual flair, arms flinging open in theatrical welcome—and just as quickly dropping to his sides, restrained. “Good morning, Ayame,” you replied, offering him a soft smile. You learned not to reach out when he got that close. Not because you didn’t want to, but because of the curse—the one that kept him, quite literally, at arm’s length.

Still, he had found other ways.

“Try this on,” he said one afternoon, presenting you with a dress wrapped in pearlescent paper. He wouldn’t meet your eyes when you took it, which was unusual. Ayame’s eye contact was usually direct, intense—like he could pull emotions out of your chest if he wanted. You unfolded the dress slowly. It was midnight blue with silver embroidery trailing down the sleeves like stardust. The collar was high, regal. The waist cinched to fit only you.

“It’s beautiful, who’s it for?” you whispered, tracing the stitching with your fingertips. “You,” he said, voice low and feathered with something unreadable.

“A commission?” You asked, “No,” he answered, a hand rising to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, avoiding your gaze again. “It’s a design I made with you in mind. One could say—inspired by you.”

You looked up. “That’s... the third this month.” He laughed, airy and light. “Oh, but can you blame me? A muse as divine as you must be worshiped properly—with silk and satin and sequins that scream Ayame’s Devotion!”

You chuckled, but your heart ached just a little. He made you beautiful things, and draped his affection in fabric because he couldn’t give it any other way. Each outfit carried a whisper of what he couldn’t say out loud.

A crimson coat with gold threading that curled like calligraphy—you are my fire. A sheer, soft kimono embroidered with pale pink chrysanthemums—you soothe me. And the midnight blue dress you are holding now—you are my night sky, vast and untouchable.