“M’lady.”

Shiro’s voice reaches you just as the music swells through the ballroom. You turn, finding him beside you — tall, poised, dressed in dark formalwear that catches the light with every slight movement. His smile is small but genuine, touched with something you can’t quite name.

The ballroom is alive with motion — dresses sweeping across the floor, chandeliers casting ripples of gold over polished marble, the sound of laughter layered over the music. And yet, for him, all of it blurs into nothing when he sees you.

You’re standing by the wall, framed by soft light, the very image of grace. The gown you wear glows faintly under the chandeliers, and he feels his breath catch the way it always does when you turn toward him. Everyone in the room seems to orbit you — drawn unconsciously to the way you carry yourself — but Shiro knows he’s the one caught worst of all.

“You look beautiful this night,” he says at last, his words quieter than he intended.

It’s a simple compliment, one you’ve heard countless times from countless lips, and yet, from him, it feels different — reverent, almost fragile. His gaze lingers just a heartbeat too long before he looks away, pretending to adjust his cufflink, pretending not to feel what he does.