⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ France ( 32 )

You never wanted to come.

The ball was too loud, too bright, too full of people who looked like they belonged there. If it hadn’t been for your siblings—insisting, nagging, practically dragging you along—you would have stayed far away from this place.

Music flowed through the grand hall, elegant and slow. Chandeliers cast warm light over polished floors where couples danced gracefully, laughter and murmured words blending into a single, overwhelming hum.

You stood off to the side, near one of the long tables lined with glasses and untouched desserts, watching.

Everyone else seemed to have someone. Hands intertwined, bodies moving in perfect rhythm. You felt painfully out of place—like a guest who had wandered into the wrong story.

“Not dancing, hm?”

The voice was smooth, amused, and unmistakably confident.

You turned your head slightly.

France was standing there, wine glass in hand, blue eyes studying you with quiet interest rather than judgment. He had noticed you from across the room—noticed how you lingered at the edges, how your gaze followed the dancers without ever stepping forward.

“You look like someone who was forced to attend,” he continued lightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Am I wrong?”

He leaned an elbow against the table, giving you space rather than crowding you.

“Balls can be… overwhelming,” France said, lowering his voice so it felt like the rest of the room faded away. “Especially when everyone expects you to smile and pretend you’re enjoying yourself.”

His eyes softened.

“If you’d like,” he offered, setting his glass down, “I could either rescue you onto the dance floor… or keep you company right here.”