Sylvain fancies himself a social butterfly, but Dorothea’s ability to entertain a crowd never fails to impress him. She navigates the Mittelfrank’s VIP lounge like a Gautier war horse maneuvers a battlefield—which is to say that no one does it better. She remembers all her patrons’ names, knows exactly what to say, when to smile or laugh or playfully pout. And as the hour of post-show mingling winds down, Sylvain knows exactly where to find her once she’s free of the obligation.

Enbarr never sleeps, a fact made well apparent by the view from the opera house rooftop. The moon is high, and the city is a vision of lights, a vast network of streets more than double the size of Fhirdiad. Sylvain still remembers getting lost on those streets the first time he visited, overwhelmed and high on the novelty. He can find his way around much better these days, thanks in no small part to the woman standing at the railing.

“Evening,” he says with a casual wave, and Dorothea does something uncharacteristic. Instead of waiting for him to come to her, she pivots on her heels and bounds over, practically collapsing into his arms. Her grip is tight on his waist, like he might fly away otherwise—which might’ve been true, once. It’s a rare sight for her to be so blatantly needy, a sure sign of how exhausted she is.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he teases, stroking her hair as much as he can without ruining her perfectly done-up curls. “Someone might see.”

She takes the smallest step back, hands still resting on his hips as she looks up at him. “It’s just us here. And aside from you, only staff has roof access.”

He blinks, processing the implication. “The troupe knows, then?”

“I told them last time you visited.”

Hearing that makes him happier than he wants to admit. “Are you sure that’s wise? Rumors spread like wildfire here. All it takes is one slip of the tongue—and with the way your co-workers drink, those tend to be pretty abundant.”

“It’s difficult enough keeping my audience in the dark,” Dorothea says, a hint of strain in her voice. “Having to fool the people I work with every day…” Even she has her limits. “Besides—you’re always going on about how much you hate keeping us a secret.”

Us. He loves how easily the word rolls off her tongue. At another time of his life, with literally anyone else, it would’ve terrified him. How ironic that he’s finally comfortable with the concept of someone loving him, yet can’t tell anyone about it. Cosmic punishment, maybe.

“I understand why, though,” he says. Part of Dorothea’s appeal as a diva is her perceived availability—the illusion, however far-fetched, that someone could win her over, even if just for a night (not that she ever gives them that these days.) The war was tough for artists and entertainers, even an establishment as illustrious as the Mittelfrank. They need the money—which means Dorothea needs to keep their wealthiest customers paying extra for the privilege of her company. And as much as Sylvain wants to remedy all her financial woes, restoring Gautier to its own former glory comes first.

In a perfect world, things would be different. Instead, Dorothea’s voice drops low, brows furrowed with guilt. “Sylvain…”

“I’m not worried about it right now,” he reassures her. “Just happy that I finally have some alone time with the woman I love.”

She eases a fraction, heaving a sigh. “Emphasis on ‘some.’ I have to go get ready for another party in a moment.”

“Right. Viscountess Fenja’s ‘little get-together.’” He suspects it’ll be anything but. Adrestian nobility doesn’t know the meaning of restraint.

“Yes. As lovely as her company is…” She massages her temple. “I fear I don’t have the same energy for this that I used to.”

“Would it help if I tagged along?”

Surprise flashes across her face before melting into something more conflicted. “Goddess, I wish.” She scans him up and down, a glimmer of hunger in her eyes. “Unfortunately I would lack the fortitude to resist you, and that’s a sure way to spell trouble.”

His cheeks warm. “You flatter me, Thea.”

She closes the distance between them again, resting her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes flutter closed, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. She’s a vision in the moonlight, dressed in a frilly white dress to match the character she’s playing on the stage, and it imbues her with an ethereal glow; he’s also finding her difficult to resist. But he must—and truth be told, sometimes the wait makes her all the more alluring.

Still, he can make the most of what little time they have now. He cups her cheek in his hand, nudging her head up a fraction of an inch. Her green eyes fly open to meet his, so piercing that he almost forgets what he was going to say.

“How about a kiss to tide you over?”

Her sly smile is immediate. “I think we can swing it.”

He leans in, intending little more than a quick peck, but Dorothea has other plans: she surges into him like a woman possessed, parting his lips with her tongue and rooting her fingers into his hair with enough fervor to sting a little. Sylvain hums in surprise, his body moving on instinct—determined to return her kiss tenfold and give her something to think about while her mind wanders during whatever dull conversation she’ll have to endure later. They’re both panting by the time it’s over, heated breaths mingling as Sylvain presses his forehead to hers.

“I’ll be waiting for you at home, alright?” he murmurs. “And there’ll be plenty more where that came from—assuming you still have an appetite.”

“Please,” she says with the most heartwarming giggle. He misses her already. “You know I always save room for you.”