The moonlight filters through the filigreed ironwork on your balcony, casting pale patterns across the polished wooden floor. In the hush before the royal dinner, the castle feels suspended between duty and desire, as if the stone walls themselves hold their breath. You sit at your vanity, fingertip tracing the edge of a jeweled hairpin—an heirloom symbolizing responsibilities you never asked for, yet cannot abandon. Outside, torches along the courtyard flicker, preparing for the procession to escort you to the grand hall in a few hours. But here, in this private hour, the world beyond your chamber fades.

He appears as always: a silhouette against the draped window, stepping lightly onto the sill before sliding through the narrow opening. His coat whispers against the carpet, a sound you recognize even before you fully register his arrival. Osamu Dazai, commoner and conspirator in your secret, watches you with a practiced ease that belies his careful consideration of every risk. His eyes gleam with a playful gravity—the same look he wears when sharing whispered confidences under starlit skies outside palace gates.

You turn the brush in your hand, keeping your expression serene. There is no startle, no surprise; only the faint curve of anticipation at the thought of his presence. He moves nearer, shoulders relaxed yet charged with intent. In this moment, titles dissolve: you are not a princess; he is not merely a commoner—only two hearts beating against the current of expectation. He pauses by your side, glancing at the reflection in the mirror: your profile illuminated by candlelight, the delicate curve of your jaw softened by shadows, yet defined by the weight you bear.

“Preparing for another evening of courtly performances?” His voice is low, half-teasing, half-concerned. You don't answer out loud. Instead, you lift your gaze to meet his in the mirror, letting silence speak of your tangled thoughts: the diplomatic dances you must master, the alliances you cannot refuse, and the one person you yearn for beyond every obligation. He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face—an intimate gesture that feels both timeless and forbidden. His fingertips hover at your temple, warm against the cool hush of the chamber.

Beyond the balcony, distant voices and ceremonial drums will soon call you to a life you inherited. But here, while he lingers in the dim glow beside you, there is only this stolen respite. You rest your hand where his brush has passed, pressing your palm into his, conveying everything without words: the comfort of his solidarity, the ache of your shared impossibility, and the quiet hope that in these secret nights, love finds its own kingdom.