“…At least show *some* reaction!”

Arman was the one who shouted it.

Evelia might’ve wanted Arman to react too—but she’d never dart over like a gust of wind.

From shrugging off his coat to draping it reversed over Evelia’s front: mere seconds. For a knight like Arman, a short sprint was effortless. Yet as he gripped her shoulders, he bent low, breath ragged.

"…"

Evelia glanced at the white knight’s coat now covering her. Silent, she obediently slipped her arms into sleeves too long for her, then lifted her gaze to Arman. Seeing him this flustered? Rare.

"…I mean…" Arman’s fingers twitched. He straightened, palms lifting from her shoulders. "No… hah… what *are* you…?"

With a helpless sigh, he swept stray strands from his brow and glanced around.

This alley had a grim reputation—few walked it. Shady, yes, but chillingly empty. When the wind blew moments ago, only Evelia and Arman stood by the wall. That little incident? All for his eyes alone.

"…Eve."

"I’m here, Mr. Arman."

Where Arman was visibly flustered, Evelia showed no shift. She only wondered if he’d liked that novel-esque breeze… and felt a hint of regret. Her carefully practiced "gentle expression" had been blocked by her flying skirt.

(Truthfully, even unblocked, it wouldn’t have looked gentle. Her face was as expressive as stone.)

"…"

Arman exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tap-tap-tapping his temple.

How could she be so utterly indifferent to a skirt mishap?

He knew she was cold-natured—but as a girl, shouldn’t she feel *some* shame?

Any other lady would’ve fled in tears, wailing, "I’ll never marry now!"

"You weren’t like this the *whole* way… right?"

Evelia didn’t care. Arman suddenly did.

The wind hadn’t been a one-time thing. How many times had her skirt flipped already? *Had she walked the entire route like that?*

Arman wasn’t noble, hated noble etiquette—but this… this wasn’t about manners. It was terrifying.

"Yes. It’s been like this the whole way back."

Anyone would hear "like this" and think *skirt incident*. Evelia? She took it literally: *Have I been wearing this new outfit the whole way?* She cared deeply about the dress.

*It’s just underwear. Why hide it? If he likes it, I’d give it to him.*

(Not that Arman seemed to have such tastes.)

"…? Hm? Wait—um…?"

Arman’s mind flashed: pink-haired girl in white, skirts lifting under admiring gazes, revealing…

…

…*Don’t go there.*

He shut the image down fast.

Honestly? Evelia meant little to him. She was just the Second Prince’s unproven spy. If she died, he’d hunt a new one—annoying, but no grief.

And he saw it clearly: unless he was deluding himself, she was running a honey trap. Using her beauty.

But…

"Sigh… you…"

His annoyance wasn’t at her. It was at himself.

*End her now. Quiet corner. Prevent mistakes.*

He hesitated.

He’d crossed paths with the Nightingale House before. Felt pity for their assassins. But opposing factions? Should be eliminated.

*Observe longer?*

She *was* interesting… but a live wire. Could blow anytime.

His eyes met hers—golden, reflecting his own strained face.

*Head itches… like it’s sprouting a brain.*

*Kill her. No witnesses. Easy.*

But—

"Aah—fine."

He’d wrestled his own mind. Compromised.

A gamble.

*—Whose life am I playing with?*

Forget it.

Treat her as the enemy.

If she shows *any* sign later… end her.

Yet aloud, he asked casually:

"So… you really walked the whole way with your skirt flying up?"

"Hm?" Evelia tilted her head. "Flying skirt? Like… this?"

Without hesitation—coat still reversed over her arms—she lifted her skirt, ready to recreate the scene.

Arman’s hand shot out, yanking the hem down.

"How was it?"

Evelia blinked.

"Nothing… You really don’t mind at all, huh."

Her hand stilled. Eyes locked on him. "Do *you* mind?"

"Huh?"

Arman’s face said *None of my business*, but his heart skipped.

"Do you… mind that my skirt flew up?"

"I…"

Speechless. *Why sharp about the wrong things?*

"Never mind."

He sighed, crooked a finger. "Follow me."

"Where?"

"Weren’t you returning to the manor?"

"Yes."

Behind him, Evelia watched as he led her to his carriage. No ordinary cart—emblazoned with the Knights Order crest, white-and-gold gleaming, regal and imposing. Royalty’s colors.

"Eve."

Arman stood beside it, hand extended.

"Get in. I’ll take you back."