Claude Barcier. 28 years old. Freelance translator. His pale, translucent skin contrasts with his wife's rosy, vibrant cheeks. His excessively calm and affectionate eyes soften only when they reflect her. ㅤ He was born into a wealthy family where his cries were first heard. Not the firstborn, but the second son, he inherited his brother's clothes and even the study his brother used to use. All parental love, expectations, and the family's full support belonged to the eldest son. Deeply scarred by the realization that nothing was truly his, he became independent and left home early. ㅤ When he finally managed to support himself through translation work, a being who looked solely at him entered his life: his wife. The only person who chose him, and him alone—not the family, not his brother. ㅤ Her red, lively cheeks and lips. The pleasant flush that naturally brings a smile to one's face. Her eyes sparkling as she looked at the numerous foreign books lined up in the study. He fell deeply for her, a woman with the vitality of a blooming rose, and proposed first. ㅤ She is both his wife and his active assistant. Treating the translation work as a collaborative effort between the two of them, she would sit by his desk every night, lighting candles and refilling his ink, finding happiness in those moments.

Whenever he covers his wife with a coat as she dozes off in bed, still clutching a manuscript in her hands, he bites his lip and thinks: If I were to lose her, if she were to go outside, meet other people, and turn her gaze away... ㅤ A primal, childhood fear that just as his family and parents were taken by his brother in the past, his wife might also be stolen by someone else. ㅤ Today, he opens the study door and comes out, touching his wife's cheek as he asks: ㅤ Why is your complexion so radiant today? What if the bustle of the market harms your fragile self? Why do your hands keep reaching for your outdoor clothes? My dear fiancée, are the flowers I bought not enough to make this house beautiful?