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Dorothea is the first to be approached. The songstress is swept off her feet before she can even turn her charm on, reeled in to his side with a dance he unceremoniously forgets the steps to despite countless early morning and late evening rehearsals. After stepping on her feet a dozen times over, he sheepishly settles for lunch under the gazebo as an equitable substitute for his two left feet and she agrees to humor him with a teasing lilt, for the effort and serendipity of it all if anything. She also agrees, over a few cups of tea, to give him some pointers in the art of swaying with one another, and he's all the merrier for it.
"I-I'll be sure to cherish this f-forever!" squeaks Bernadetta, her face flushed and feverish as she hugs her new sweater close. The sleeves are uneven and lopsidedly placed, but she doesn't care. "T-thank you so much, professor! I don't deserve something as sweet as this! T-this isn't some kind of mistake, is it?! It almost has to be, it's good to be true! Oh please don't take it back if it is! I love it so much! I promise to wear it every da—AAAH!"
Ovid cuts her off with a snap of its jaws, and would have cut off much more than that if not for her honed catlike reflexes. Unsatisfied with the taste of thin air alone, the potted plant growls and gnashes its wicked teeth before sinking them into the back of the professor's skull. The only thing keeping Bernadetta from fainting outright is the distraction she incurs from the professor's inquiry into possibly improving his needlework. That anyone would take an interest in one of her hobbies is more of a shock to her than a man-eating plant passively eating a plant-eating man, so much so that it nearly leaves her short of breath and woefully tongue tied. Fortunately, she catches herself before that can happen, and accepts his request with a spark in her eyes he can't ever recall seeing beforehand.
Perhaps if Petra wasn't an exotic huntress princess with a knack for all things game and wild, she'd be unable to tell the difference between 'finely smoked' meat and 'overly burnt' meat. As it stands, however, nothing can get past her eyes, least of all a blackened slab smothered in spices that most certainly did not spontaneously combust into flames the moment it was exposed to heat. She and the professor laugh heartily at the thought that he could ever be allowed in the kitchen without supervision, which by chance, turns into an offer to make that fantasy a reality. As for her gift, the professor's relieved to learn that the hide left over from the disaster meat is a more than suitable substitute for a woman whose room is covered in pelt.
The gift giving doesn't stop with the Black Eagles, unsurprisingly. Over the course of the day, the professor finds himself delivering more gifts than even the Winter Envoy, visiting students from within his house and even outside of it in order to celebrate them just as they did he the month prior—some in recognition of their continued efforts in their studies, others in regards to their contributions on the battlefield, some simply for the sake of the spirit of the day.
"Edelgard."
And, of course, who could forget...
"P-professor?"
Byleth catches her under the grace of the moonlight, long after the day's classes with not a soul in the court to disturb them. It's not by chance this time. He knows her well enough by now to know when her mind wanders and where it takes her when it does. His chest tenses with every step, every footfall, he takes toward her—something that's been happening often as of late, and only in her presence. Burdened by a heart that can't feel and a past colored in bloodshed, he can only guess as to what the feeling might be, and why it leaves him with such warmth.
"My teacher... Is this for me?"
Edelgard blinks in wonder and disbelief at the gift—a pair of hand-knit gloves.
Byleth's gaze only deepens as he hands them to her, his voice emanating all things sincere. "The skirmish earlier this week," he says. "I noticed you tore your gloves in the struggle. I..."
He pauses, his gaze drifting, her lips parting.
"I also noticed you've been hiding your hands since then."
A small gasp escapes her despite her every attempt to keep her composure. Byleth doesn't dwell on it for reasons only they know, continuing his piece without skipping a beat. "I know that I'm not the best with a pin and needle, but..."
Nothing in the world can prepare the emperor to be for the phantom smile that graces his face, let alone the words that come with it.
"I understand that today is a day to express one's feelings to one another. As your professor, it would be remiss of me not to participate in some capacity. Wouldn't you agree, Edelgard?"
Her back is turned to him before he can even finish, her face buried miles deep into the palms of her bare hands. "Y... You can be quite cheeky for someone so blunt, my teacher..."
"What do you mean by that?" he chuckles.
"N-never mind," she unwinds and faces him once more, now adorned with his gift to her. "Ah, so they fit."
"So they do," Byleth offers his hand to her. "Let's take them for a spin,"
"Ah," the future emperor looks around furtively, as if her cheeks can't get any more heated. "Here? Now? Without any music?"
"I've been practicing," he tells her, their fingers lacing together.