Shizuo had told Zelda that he would be heading into the dining hall shortly, and after about ten minutes passed, he tried to encourage himself to do just that. However, lingering was the subtle hope that maybe - even though it was too early, and not the right place, and everything did not fit the occasion to which he looked so forward - he'd meet Snow White a second time, under different, better circumstances. Shizuo the huntsman was able to think on their shared moments without any reservation. They had been powerful, and though Shizuo had sliced open Izaya's chest, he had still taken his hand - after all of that. And the blood that he had left behind on Shizuo's palm had been proof of that.

Now, hand washed and dressed in attire similar to what he had been wearing that evening - well-made clothes of leathery animal hide were all that lined his closet during this curse - minus the blood stains, Shizuo gave himself some more time. Just in case. He kept his attention on the flowers, walking slowly, without any real purpose.

And then he heard it. That voice - the one that had so kindly promised him a heart.

Shizuo turned and his expression was one of pleased surprised. The curse afforded him the luxury of being without the weight of any negative feelings toward Izaya, instead leaving him openly appreciative, and even somewhat enthralled with the man who, even after having been stabbed, had given him a promise. Izaya was still his Snow White, only this time the promise freed Shizuo of that weight that had forced him to raise a blade to him.

"I do," he replied. Shizuo the huntsman had respect for all life, even plants, and a deep appreciation for the way they contributed to the cycle of life. That's probably why he made a terrible huntsman; he could hardly bring himself to uproot a plant, let alone kill an animal. "Especially the red ones," he added, looking into Izaya's eyes.

Then he looked away.

"It's early," he said, attention on a rose bush. One week had not yet passed.