Hello to You, Too

Yuu collapsed onto a trunk full of silk gloves, finally catching her breath as Vil reviewed tomorrow’s schedule with the merciless calm of a general preparing for war. The rest of the day had been an exercise in…well, exercise.

She had fixed lights, climbed scaffolding, been to the store to purchase no less than TEN bottles of toner, and wherever she went, despite the lovely pressures of the shower-room she left a trail of glitter wherever she went like a virulent calling card.

“You are twenty-two minutes late,” Vil said from his vanity seat without looking up.

“The price of bringing dinner, and your seven outfits for tomorrow,” she groaned.

He finally looked up. “…You were tolerable today.”

She blinked. “That sounded like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

Still, there was the faintest edge of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, and Yuu, exhausted and itchy from sequins, decided to count it as a win.

Until she looked at the next day’s schedule and saw:

5:30am – Meet with foreign dignitary stylists

(Potato must bring pastries.)

“Exactly where does one get pastries at that hour?” she asked aloud.

“That would be the ‘assistant to Vil Schoenheit’s’ job to figure out,” he sing-songed.

She glared at his now perfectly glitter-free attire. “You really are annoyed to be co-starring with Neige if you want me to bake for you at 3AM. Can you not just say ‘no?’”

His scowl was immediate. “That would be a ‘potato problem,’ and no. Not after it’s been announced to the world like this.”

Yuu rubbed her face. “So to recap: I’m waking up before dawn, dodging security, breaking into a bakery, possibly getting arrested—all to supply diplomatic pastries because your pride won't let you flake on a fake friendship.”

Vil turned in his chair, one elegant brow raised. “It’s not a fake friendship. It’s a manufactured public narrative born of aggressive studio meddling.”

“Forgive me, that makes it so much more emotionally authentic.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Sarcasm dulls your skin.”

She flopped dramatically onto the nearest fainting couch. “Then I’m practically a potato already.”

“Glad we’re finally aligned on something.” Vil turned back to the mirror, brushing a speck of powder from under his eye that she could not see. “I just don’t like surprises,” he said, softly. “Neige was a surprise.”

Yuu peeked at him from beneath her arm. “You don’t like Neige?”

“I don’t like what Neige represents,” he replied carefully. “A reminder that I’m expected to smile through being sidelined in my own industry. To be gracious. Polished. Disposable.”

Her voice was quieter now. “You’re not disposable.”

He glanced at her in the mirror.

“No,” he agreed, voice clipped. “But they try to make you feel that way. If you don’t adjust. If you don’t play nice.”

Yuu sat up a little, the sarcasm fading around the edges.

“…Is that why you need an assistant?” she asked. “To not play nice for you?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes lingered on hers through the reflection.

Then he said, dry as ever, “I keep you around because your incompetence amuses me.”

“Oh good,” she said, dragging the throw pillow to her face. “I’d hate to be someone important. Especially after today. Consider me 100% disposable, princess.”

He threw a second pillow from his own chair at her head.

“Tomorrow, security will be better,” he grumbled, reaching for his usual NRC suit jacket as a sign that it was time to leave.

*

Tomorrow, security was NOT better. It was, if possible, worse. Several rabid fans had managed to get into the building, and still more—possibly worse—paparazzi had found weaknesses in their perimeter, as well. So in the following days, Vil put in more requests. More staff were hired—unfortunately, it seemed like not all of the staff was trustworthy.

Yuu had just slipped off her newly-required, glitter-free heels, balancing the tray of fizzy elderflower tonics and three glass bottles of imported mineral water, when the distant clatter reached her ears. Not the polite clatter of stagehands or the click-clack of stylist heels. No—this was the unmistakable, swarming buzz of shouting voices, camera shutters, and the sudden, rising pitch of chaos.

“—There he is!”

“NEIGE! LOOK OVER HERE—!”

“IS VIL WITH YOU?!”

She spun toward the hallway—and her stomach dropped. A side door hung ajar. Past it, the glittering storm of paparazzi spilled in like a tide of flashbulbs and elbows, shouting over each other in pursuit of a pastel blur near the stairwell.

Neige.

He looked like a startled rabbit, paralyzed just a breath too long—one foot lifted, not knowing where to go.

“Oh come on,” Yuu muttered, practically hurling the drink tray onto the nearest table.

She lunged across the hallway, grabbed a fistful of Neige’s sleeves, and yanked him behind the velvet curtain draped along the wall just as a cameraman elbowed past, bellowing for someone to smile.

They crashed into each other in a tangle of limbs and awkward apologies. Neige muffled a surprised squeak, flailing to keep his hat from tumbling off.

“Sshh!” Yuu clamped a hand over his mouth, long enough for the storm to pass.

He blinked, lips still parted beneath her hand, cheeks turning a soft shade of strawberry. She let him go as soon as she was sure he wouldn’t make a sound, and shuffled away from him.

The voices roared past outside. One flash lit the curtains faintly, then another. But the bulk of the crowd swept on like a stampede, chasing after some poor intern who’d screamed and bolted down the wrong hallway.

Finally, quiet. Or something like it.

Yuu let out a long breath and dropped her hand. “Sorry for manhandling you,” she blurted quickly, hoping no one was going to sue her for this. “Um. The side door isn’t exactly safe today.”

Neige looked sheepish. “I just wanted some fresh air.”

“You nearly got turned into celebrity chutney.”

“I—I know the fans haven’t exactly given the best impression back there, but I swear they would never do something like that!”

She pushed the curtain aside, peeking out for signs of any remaining camera vultures.

“Right,” she said, giving him an awkward half-smile as she held the curtain back for him. “They’re the reason you do all of this.”

He’d said as much in an interview just the day before, but his cherubic smile froze a bit on his face, and he gave a sort of half-laugh of his own. It was sincere, and sweet, and a little silly, and she could have sworn that little natural smile of his was the sort of sweet thing that would have birds and squirrels begging to do his chores.

“That’s part of it. I also do it to keep my family afloat. There’s a lot of them, y’know?”

Her phone buzzed angrily in her pocket, a haughty V.S. flashing across her screen.

Oh, no.

“I bet that’s part of why you’re so good with crowds,” she said brightly. “Sorry to delay you. I should really be getting back.”

Her phone was buzzing more urgently, as if to say how-dare-you-abandon-my-magnificence-are-you-blind?

“Wait, I—I never thanked you for stepping between us and all of those things the other day,” he said, blushing lightly. Had he been there, too? “I didn’t know you were so brave,” he said, still breathless.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“Not brave. Just expendable,” she said lightly, the buzzing at her hip getting truly irate.

Beside her, Neige smiled. “Still. You saved me. Like a knight.”

“Yep!” she said, halfway ignoring him in favor of silencing her phone.

Oh dear. He’d written paragraphs!

Snatching up her drink tray once more, she turned to leave. But his fingers caught her wrist gently, halting her.

“Wait—I just wanted to say—thank you, really. I’m not sure who else would do what you just did. I was just wondering—.”

She blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his voice, how close he suddenly was.

“It’s really just the job” she mumbled, cutting him off.

Her phone started ringing. Great.

“Maybe, but, do you think—” It was just a beat too long, that look he gave her. The hush of backstage. The way he didn’t let go of her wrist.

CRASH.

The double doors behind them burst open with a BANG and a thunder of feet. Cameras. Screams. Lights like lightning.

“THERE THEY ARE!”

A blur of bodies surged forward.

Neige turned his head. “Wait—”

Someone slammed into him from behind, jostled by the crowd.

Neige fell forward hard…right into her. His hands grabbed her shoulders to catch himself, but momentum was merciless—and the next moment was burned into reality with brutal clarity:

His lips landed on hers, uncomfortably hard. Mouth to mouth. Full contact. No hesitation. No pulling back.

There was a beat of stunned stillness before the flashbulbs began flashing with what could only be described as evil glee.

Then, SPLOOSH! Her precious tray hit the ground, shattering the cups and a bottle of something purple and expensive. Water splashed up like a special effects department’s dream. A hundred shutters went off like gunfire.

She stumbled back from poor Neige, who looked like he was about to go into shock, but that was not her problem, right now.

Mumbling something about getting a broom for the glass, Yuu took off running.

“Wait,” she heard Neige stutter. “Wait—”

Click.

Flash.

“NEIGE! WHO’S YOUR NEW FLAME?!”

“IS THIS WHY VIL LEFT EARLY?!”

“IS THIS REAL LOVE OR A STARFALL STUNT?!”

“Did you just kiss Vil Schoenheit’s assistant on camera?”

Crap-crap-crap! Vil left EARLY!?

Neige would have to save himself this time.

Frantically, she pulled her phone out of her pocket.

“Vil!” she panted into the device, running for his dressing room—and finding it empty. “Dangit, Vil, where are you!?”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” he snarled venomously. “Where are you? You should have been back ages ago.”

“I am back,” she said. “No one here.”

“Of course not. There’s been a breach in security. We’re going back for the day until the Gala representatives can get this under control.”

“Yeah, funny enough, I know about the breach,” she retorted. “Where should I go?”

“The carport to the side,” he said, as though that should be blatantly, patently obvious. “And bring your jacket. We’re getting you some decent clothes if you’re going to represent me this weekend. Or ever.”

She whined, switching directions. He hadn’t said anything about actually having to GO to this Gala.

One couldn’t throw cushions or other munitions through a phone, but somehow, Vil made it work.

“Hurry up!” he snapped.

*

The mall Vil took them to with the spare hours they had left in the day was…terrifying. Yuu squinted under the harsh chandelier lighting, trailing behind Vil with a paper cup of mall coffee and suspiciously sticky sneakers. Her jacket was a little too wet from the splash zone earlier, and she could still smell cranberry juice in her hair. There were guards/assistants/drink carriers at every corner. It had private parking. The stores offered free cookies and velvet seating.

When she hung back from Vil, not entirely confident he wanted to be seen with someone who had just been through a juice explosion, he just sighed.

“A crime,” he said softly, eyes scanning her outfit. “A fashion crime.”

“We just walked past three stores. You waited until this one to insult me?”

“This one has mirrors,” he replied sweetly, holding the door for her, which to be honest, was almost as scary as his full-blown tirades.

Vil was already rifling through a rack of gowns like a man selecting weapons. “

“I have clothes,” she said carefully, when she caught sight of the price tags on one of the articles of clothing. It was a shirt. Just a shirt. Nothing special. And those were triple digits!

“You have outfits that say ‘I run errands in the dark and hope no one sees me.’ Which, frankly, is an insult to both you and anyone with eyes.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. “Is this because I wore your hoodie to the gala prep room?”

“No,” he said smoothly. “This is because you wore my backup hoodie to meet the royal-arch’s tailor’s assistant. Who then mistook you for the lighting crew.”

“Oh come on, he was eighty!” she argued immediately. “And had cataracts—!”

He turned.

And held up a dress. It was effortlessly elegant—nothing showy, but with structure, style, and subtle detail. The kind of thing that made you notice someone without knowing why.

Yuu stared at it. Then at him. “That… looks expensive.”

Vil rolled his eyes, tossing the dress into a waiting assistant’s arms, who scurried away to the dressing rooms. After assuring her—with a plethora of assurances and minor insults that this was to be a Schoenheit Expenditure™ and that it would be counted toward her compensation for the week (yay) he whisked her away to the dressing room as well, with the threat that she WOULD be trying on everything that he chose.

“Anything for you, princess,” she muttered, once she was behind the curtain.

“What was that?”

The curtain rustled.

“Um… another minute.” Yuu warned from inside the stall.

“The day I’m that desperate…” Vil scolded back. She could almost see the expression that went with that tone. Arms folded. One foot tapping with military precision. Despite the insult, she smiled.

The first few outfits went fine, Vil nodding, or scowling at her the same way he did at directors’ directions and lighting crews. She already knew what his tics meant. When it came time for the dress, however, she…got stuck.

Cautiously, she pulled the curtain back, the thing mostly on, but…

“I’m not sure these fastenings are made to be put on alone,” she said sheepishly.

Vil sighed, already rising from the plush bench. “Give it here.”

He rolled his eyes, took her by the shoulder, and without warning, stepped inside. Yuu yelped, stumbling backward. “You can’t—!”

He held up a hand. “Relax. It’s a zipper. And you’re wearing more under that dress than most of Neige’s fan club wears in summer.”

“Right. Nothing about your carnivorous fanclub, hey?”

“No.”

“I’m emotionally vulnerable,” she muttered.

“You’re emotionally under-accessorized,” he retorted, already adjusting the zipper with calm, precise hands. The dress slipped into place. She turned slightly to the mirror. Her breath caught.

“…Oh.”

Vil stepped back to let her see. In the reflection, he stood just behind her—tall, poised, unreadable. His eyes flicked up from the hem to her neckline, calculating as ever.

She turned, ready for a snarky comment.

But instead, he said:

“It fits.”

She frowned. “Is that it?”

He blinked—like he’d forgotten he was supposed to say something more. “I said it fits. I don’t hand out ribbons for participation.”

“No poetic monologue? No ‘potato in couture’ speech? No ‘you can dress up anything’?”

She watched him in the mirror. He was still staring—not at the dress anymore, but at her. As if he’d finally noticed something and wasn’t sure what to do with it. Standing behind her, he was inches away from her skin, parts of him still touching her.

“…Vil?”

His posture snapped back into place like a curtain falling.

“Shoes,” he said briskly. “You’ll need heels. Black. Closed toe. And don’t you dare wear socks with them.”

She laughed loudly. “Exactly how far gone do you think I am?”

Smirking, Vil added, almost too casually ignoring her protest, “And if you spill anything on that, I will strangle you with the sash.”

Ah. He was back.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Can’t wait.”

The moment passed. But in the mirror, she caught the faintest shade of pink on his ears as he swept out of the stall.

The curtain fell closed behind him with a whisper of velvet. Yuu watched it sway, bemused and still half in the moment. The dress shimmered softly under the boutique lights, catching on every breath she took. The man was right about one thing—he did have taste.

It was her gift to herself not to look at the tag.

After summoning another pair of shop-assistants for the aforementioned shoes-without-socks, as well as several other complex requests, Vil took up a perch on one of the velvet seats outside the changing room while they waited.

Vil’s phone, sitting face-down on beside him, lit up. Once. Twice. Then again. A cascade of urgent vibrations.

He reached for it lazily, like it was just another minor inconvenience in his kingdom of perfection.

Then he saw the screen. He stared. Eyes narrowed. Jaw flexed.

It was a long, icy minute before he shifted his attention back to her, and his eyes locked onto hers with what she could only describe as….well, she couldn’t actually. He’d donned his professional dont-touch-me expression, the one made for hiding what he truly felt.

“Get changed.” His tone cracked like frost on glass.

She froze. “What?”

“We’re leaving.” He turned, already reaching for her bag and his coat.

“Hang on. I still need to go and pay for—”

“It’s been handled,” he said tightly, phone now clenched in his hand like a weapon. “We have to go. Now.”

She ducked back behind the curtain, hurriedly pulling the dress off. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t look at her as she emerged, back in her hoodie and boots, carrying the dress on its hanger.

Not even when she touched his arm.

“Vil—”

“Car’s outside.”

She followed in a stunned hush as he walked ahead, glass doors sliding open at his presence like they feared resisting. And inside the car, silence.