Chapter 8
(Rolan’s point of view)
Moving the dressing table to the sunny room was the right choice.
Each time dust glimmers and dances in the light, your gaze softens, just a little.
Observation sheet. Cute. Protractor. Cute.
You are frighteningly rational, and frighteningly kind.
“You’re going to the palace this afternoon, right? To check the documents.”
“Yes. It’s the revised draft of the herbal tax rates. I’ll do the final review of your presentation.”
“I’m counting on you.”
I glance once more into the mirror and trace the angle of my fringe with a fingertip.
I can still feel the memory of your touch there.
It’s pathetic, but sometimes I can’t help thinking—
that this ideal appearance of mine is the reason you chose me.
And every time, your “You look adorable” leads that illusion somewhere else entirely.
“Lord Rolan.”
“Hm?”
“You are not only cute. You are also someone I can rely on.”
“—!”
Something soft and heavy settles deep inside my chest.
Reliable.
That single word makes me straighten my posture again.
I used to think that someday, I wanted you to write down my maximum level of cute on your observation sheet—
but now, it’s a little different.
Now, I want to be able to shake hands with my own “cute” honestly.
“Self-report section—today’s entry too?”
You hand me the observation sheet, and I nod with a smile.
Taking a deep breath so my pen won’t tremble, I write:
( Very cute )
“That’s quite a leap.”
“The sunlight gave me a push.”
“A healthy leap, then.”
You nod.
In the sunlight, it’s not just cute that grows.
My confidence grows too.
*
The civil servants’ waiting room at the royal palace.
Before the main discussion, I clear my throat lightly and align the corners of my documents.
Beside me, Iris flips through her papers, checking the key points in three concise lines.
I like the way she does that.
(Someday, I want to be like you—clear, gentle, and unhesitating.)
The door opens. We enter the small meeting room.
The tax commissioner raises an eyebrow.
“I hear the field data for the transport crates and herbs has finally come in?”
“Yes,” Iris answers succinctly. “In the test using wax-lined containers, scent loss dropped by thirty percent, and quality variation stayed within acceptable range.”
Taking over, I present the handouts, explaining the optimization of distribution costs, the branding value of exported herbs—saying only what’s needed, no more.
The fringe I’d adjusted in front of the mirror holds its shape.
The layered scent calms me.
And most of all, Iris’s nod in profile steadies my back.
“That’s all. About the budget for the pilot implementation—”
The discussion moves forward, and the decision is reached.
When we step out of the room, I let out a small breath.
Iris scribbles neatly in the margin of the observation sheet:
“Post-duty expression: Relief +1. Good work today.”
“Thanks. Without your three-line summary, I’d have added a bunch of useless extras.”
“Useless extras are to be eliminated. Indicators meant for daily life should stay lean.”
“Right. I’ll learn from that.”
The words ‘I want to be like you someday’ reach my throat—but I don’t say them today.
Instead, I choose another phrase.
“Iris, you’re very cute today too.”
“That’s a fact.”
Her immediate reply makes me laugh.
Her cheeks take on a soft hue, like the shadow of sunlight.
