Nevermind

The rain wasn't just falling. It was attacking the glass. Heavy, fat droplets slammed against the bedroom window like a barrage of tiny stones, a rhythmic, violent drumming that made your skin crawl. Every few seconds, the world outside would vanish into a blinding, strobe light flash of white, followed immediately by a low, gut shaking rumble of thunder that seemed to vibrate right through your mattress and into your very bones. You were curled into a tight ball under the heavy blanket, the fabric clutched so hard in your hands that your knuckles were white. Your breath was coming in shallow, jagged hitches and your heart was a frantic bird trapped in your chest, fluttering uselessly against your ribs.

The bedroom door eased open just enough to let the warm light from the hallway spill across the floor.

You barely noticed. What you did notice were the footsteps.

Measured. Unhurried. Familiar enough that your racing mind recognized them before the rest of you did. Sebastian had a way of moving through the world as though nothing could ever truly unsettle him. Not even a storm that had you curled beneath the blankets.

""I see we've chosen the blanket as our first line of defense."

The scent of rain followed him into the room, and despite yourself, your shoulders eased just a fraction.

Sebastian sounded far too entertained.

You heard the quiet click of the bedroom door before the mattress shifted beneath his weight. His coat still carried the cool scent of rain as he settled beside you. Outside, thunder cracked so loudly the windows trembled, and despite your best efforts, your shoulders jerked with another involuntary flinch.

"Not a particularly effective strategy," he observed lightly, "but an understandable one, I suppose."

"I'm not hiding," you managed to mumble into your pillow, though your voice was a little too shaky to be convincing. "I'm... strategizing. From a position of safety."

A soft, huffed laugh escaped him, and then you felt the bed shift again as he moved up beside you. He didn't hesitate, sliding his arm beneath the blanket to pull you closer to his side. His skin was warm, a stark contrast to the chilly air of the room and as he tucked you against his chest, the frantic rhythm of your heart began to slow, lulled by the steady, powerful thrum of his own. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the crown of your hair, his breath warm against your scalp.

"Strategizing?" Sebastian echoed, one brow lifting as he settled beside you. "What a charitable way of describing this."

"I'm not hiding."

"No?" His fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face. "Curious. Because from where I'm sitting, you appear to have declared war on a blanket."

"It's loud."

"It is."

"And the lightning."

"Mhm."

"And the thunder."

"Also present."

You frowned up at him.

"You're enjoying this."

"A little."

You made an offended noise, burying your face against his shoulder as another crack of thunder rattled the windows.

"There it is again," you mumbled.

"There it is."

"You are completely impossible."

"So I've been told."

His hand drifted slowly along your back, warm and unhurried, until your breathing wasn't quite so uneven anymore. Then, naturally, he ruined the moment.

"I do find humans endlessly fascinating."

"...That's never followed by anything nice."

"It rarely is." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "You tremble at a thunderstorm, yet every evening you willingly climb into bed beside a literal demon."

You looked up at him.

"When you put it like that..."

"It does raise questions."

"You've never tried to eat me."

"Not yet."

You stared at him. Your brain needed a moment to process that.

"...Sebastian."

His smile widened by the smallest fraction.

"I'm joking."

"...Were you?"

"I'll allow you to wonder."

You groaned dramatically, earning a soft chuckle.

"You really should be far more suspicious of me than the weather."

"The weather is trying to kill me."

"The weather is making noise." His thumb traced a lazy circle against your side. "I'm the one who knows every weak spot you possess."

"Oh?"

"Mhm."

His voice dipped into something impossibly smooth.

"I know precisely where to touch if I want you to stop pouting."

Before you could ask what he meant, his fingers slipped lightly against your waist.

You squealed.

"Sebastian!"

"There it is."

"No!"

"There it is again."

His fingers danced over your sides with infuriating precision, earning another burst of helpless laughter as you twisted beneath the blankets, trying and utterly failing to escape.

"You monster!"

"I've been remarkably transparent about that."

"Stoooop!"

"I believe," he mused as he effortlessly caught your wrist before you could shove him away, "this is considerably more effective than telling you not to think about the thunder."

Another rumble rolled outside.

You barely noticed it.

Instead you were too busy laughing into his shoulder while Sebastian watched you with unmistakable satisfaction.

"There we are," he murmured, finally relenting as his hand settled gently at your waist again. "Much better."

"You are awful."

"And yet," he said, pressing a light kiss into your hair, "you seem rather fond of keeping me around."

"I have my reasons to keep you." you mumbled, trying to sound dignified despite the remnants of laughter in your voice.

Another roll of thunder echoed through the house, lower this time, lingering just long enough to make your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric of his shirt. Sebastian noticed this of course. Without another teasing remark, he simply drew you a little closer, one arm settling securely around your waist while he pressed another kiss to the crown of your head.

"I'm certain you do."

"The storm will pass," he murmured against your hair. "Until then, it will have to contend with me."

You let out a quiet huff that almost became a laugh.

"...You're talking about the weather like it's an opponent."

"It is making my human uncomfortable."

There was something almost offended in the way he said it.

"I can't have that."

The city's main library never really felt like a library.

Not in the way people expected, anyway.

There were no dim corners that smelled of neglect or towering shelves that dared visitors to keep their voices down. Instead, warm light poured through the enormous windows, settling over polished wood and impossibly comfortable armchairs. Somewhere near the café, milk steamed with a familiar hiss, vanilla and fresh espresso weaving themselves into the ever present scent of paper and ink. It was the kind of place where people came looking for a single book and somehow left three hours later with a latte, an overstuffed tote bag, and a brand new fictional obsession.

Most days, the loudest thing in the building was the quiet excitement of someone discovering their next favorite story.

You were stationed behind the circulation desk, animatedly recommending your latest obsession to a college student whose arms were already full of books.

"No, see, everyone's distracted by the dragons," you said, tapping the colorful cover with a grin. "They're great, don't get me wrong. But they're not the point. The magic works because the characters do. You fall in love with them first, then suddenly you're emotionally invested in whether someone can summon lightning."

The girl nodded so enthusiastically you worried her head might come loose.

"That actually sounds amazing."

"It is amazing."

"Ahem."

You didn't even need to look up. You sigh, already knowing where this will go.

Sebastian had perfected that particular throat clear. Precise. Polite. Just loud enough to announce his presence and his impending disagreement.

He stood beside the desk, immaculate as always. Charcoal waistcoat, crisp white shirt with the sleeves folded neatly to his forearms, and a thoroughly worn copy of Wuthering Heights resting in one hand as though it belonged in a museum.

"I hesitate to interrupt," he said smoothly, which meant he absolutely did not, "but describing dragons as secondary seems... generous."

You sighed with theatrical patience.

"Here we go."

Sebastian turned his full attention to the girl.

"If you wish to experience genuine emotion," he said, "I might recommend something that has survived two centuries without requiring enchanted soul bonds or winged reptiles."

You pressed a hand dramatically against your chest.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"I merely question whether glitter and destiny qualify as literary merit."

"And I question why every classic you recommend ends with someone miserable, dead, or wandering across a moor in the rain."

"They usually have excellent reasons."

"They desperately need therapists."

The student snorted before quickly trying to hide it behind one of the books.

Sebastian's mouth twitched.

"A modern solution to timeless problems."

"You say that like emotional repression is a personality trait."

"It has served literature remarkably well."

"It has served therapy remarkably well."

The student looked between the two of you with unmistakable delight. A few others nearby turned their heads, already used to the debate but still enjoying the show.

"I swear," the student laughed, "I come here as much for the recommendations as I do to watch you two argue."

"We're not arguing," you and Sebastian answered at exactly the same time.

A beat passed.

"...See?" you muttered.

The student wandered happily toward the fantasy shelves, hugging their growing stack of novels.

The moment she disappeared around the corner, you reached for a pile of returned books, pretending to reorganize them.

"You undermine me on purpose," you said without looking up.

"I refine your recommendations."

"You call them fairy tales."

"They are fairy tales."

"They're excellent fairy tales."

"They remain fairy tales."

You shot him a look.

"You know, one day someone's going to ask for a lighthearted beach read and you're going to hand them Crime and Punishment."

"I would never."

You blinked.

"I'd recommend Austen first."

That caught you so completely off guard you laughed. You shook your head softly.

Sebastian regarded you for a quiet moment, something softer settling behind the usual amusement in his expression.

"You are particularly enthusiastic today."

"I'm always enthusiastic."

"That is true." His voice carried the faintest hint of amusement. "Today, however, you appear especially determined to rescue fantasy literature from my influence."

"It needs defending."

"Does it?"

"From you? Constantly."

He glanced toward the windows where the evening sun had begun turning gold, the library slowly emptying as closing time approached.

"I've been considering something."

"Oh?"

"You have spent months insisting these novels possess remarkable depth."

"They do."

"You've also informed no fewer than twenty seven patrons that I simply fail to appreciate them."

"I stand by that statement."

"I suspected you might."

His gaze settled on yours again, calm and impossible to read.

"So...".

The single word was enough to make you pay attention.

"The library closes in an hour."

"I know."

"Join me for dinner afterward."

You stared at him like he just grew a second head. Sebastian continued as though inviting colleagues to dinner over literary disagreements was perfectly ordinary.

"You may use the opportunity to explain, in exhaustive detail if necessary, precisely why romantasy deserves shelf space beside the classics."

You folded your arms.

"So this is..."

"A discussion."

"A date."

"If you insist."

"A date disguised as literary criticism?"

For the first time all afternoon, Sebastian looked almost caught off guard.

A faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"If calling it that improves your argument, you're welcome to."

You narrowed your eyes.

"That wasn't a denial."

"I simply dislike wasting perfectly good dinners."

"You are unbelievable."

"I've been told."

There was just enough warmth in his voice to betray him.

You sighed with exaggerated reluctance.

"...Fine."

His smile grew by a fraction.

"I'll make the reservation."

"You were already going to, weren't you?"

"I had hoped your taste in restaurants was somewhat better than your taste in books."

You laughed despite yourself.

"You are paying."

"A reasonable condition," Sebastian replied smoothly. "Consider it an investment in broadening my literary horizons."

"You are absolutely impossible."

Your boss had been a nightmare, the subway had been delayed, and to top it all off, the rain had soaked through your coat halfway through your walk. Now, you were just trying to disappear into the bottom of a cocktail, hoping the bitter citrus would wash away the frustration of the last twelve hours.

The bar wasn't crowded, but it was loud enough a low hum of indie rock and the clinking of glassware providing a backdrop to your solitude. You felt a strange sense of comfort in the dim lighting, but that peace was shattered when a heavy, warm weight slumped into the stool next to yours.

The smell hit you first: stale beer, cheap cigarettes, and a sweaty, unwashed musk that made your stomach turn. A man, looking like he’d spent the last three hours fighting a losing battle with a bottle of whiskey, leaned into your personal space. His arm brushed yours, lingering a second too long, and you instinctively pulled back.

"Hey there, gorgeous," he slurred, his voice thick and grating. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Why you sitting all by yourself? A girl like you shouldn't be drinking alone. Why don't you come home with me? I know exactly how to treat a woman like you."

You felt a flush of irritation and embarrassment prickle your skin. You gripped your glass tighter, staring straight ahead. "No thanks," you said, trying to keep your voice steady and polite. "I actually have a boyfriend."

It was a blatant lie, but you hoped it would be enough of a shield. Instead, the man let out a wet, mocking chuckle, leaning even further into you until his shoulder was pressing firmly against yours.

"A boyfriend? Don't lie to me, sweetheart," he sneered, reaching out a clumsy hand to graze your waist. "I saw you walk in alone. You don't need some guy holding you back. You need someone who knows how to have a real good time."

You froze, the skin where he touched you crawling with discomfort. You were about to snap at him when a shadow fell over the bar, cool and commanding.

"I believe my girlfriend already told you off."

The voice was smooth, dark, and carried a razor sharp edge that sliced right through the man's talk. You looked up, blinking, to see Sebastian leaning over the bar. He wasn't wearing a tuxedo tonight, just a crisp black button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing lean, strong forearms. He was polishing a highball glass with a white linen cloth, his movements methodical and calm, but his dark eyes were fixed on the drunkard with a terrifying, predatory stillness.

The man blinked, looking confused. "Your... girlfriend?"

"Indeed," Sebastian said, his lips curling into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. It was a beautiful smile, but it felt dangerous. "And she seems quite uninterested in your company. Now, either you leave on your own, or I shall be forced to make you leave. And trust me, the latter is much less pleasant for the guest."

There was something in his tone a quiet, absolute confidence that made the drunkard's boldness vanish instantly. The man stammered a half hearted insult, muttered something about "fancy bartenders," and scrambled off his stool, stumbling away toward the exit.

Silence settled between you and Sebastian, broken only by the low music of the bar. You let out a long, shaky breath, feeling the tension drain out of your shoulders. "Thank you," you murmured, looking up at him. "He was... a lot."

Sebastian didn't pull away. He stayed leaned against the bar, watching you with an intensity that made your heart do a strange little flutter. "It was my pleasure," he replied, his voice softening. "Some men simply lack the grace to recognize when they are unwelcome."

He reached for your empty cocktail glass, whisking it away with practiced ease. "Allow me. A fresh drink? A reward for surviving a rough day and dumb men. On the house."

Before you could even protest, he was already moving, his hands working with a mesmerizing, fluid grace as he prepared a new drink. A few minutes later, he slid a fresh, beautifully garnished cocktail in front of you. Beside the glass, he placed a small, folded white napkin.

As he turned to attend to another customer, you caught a glimpse of what was written on the napkin in neat, elegant script. It wasn't a napkin for spills; it was a note.

In case you find yourself needing a better class of company.

The afternoon heat settled over the Phantomhive estate like a heavy velvet curtain.

Even the roses lining the garden looked exhausted.

Bard had abandoned every complaint about polishing silver in favor of dramatically fanning himself with a serving tray. Finny looked ready to wilt beside the vegetables despite insisting he was "completely fine." Mey Rin had already dropped two glasses because her hands kept slipping.

You, meanwhile, looked exactly as you always did. Long sleeves. Stockings.

Your skirt reached well below your knees instead of the shorter summer uniform Tanaka had quietly placed in everyone's rooms days ago.

"You'll faint before sunset," Bard grumbled.

"I won't."

"You've said that three times."

"Because it's still true."

Sebastian passed behind the conversation carrying a polished tea set as if the weather had signed a contract not to inconvenience him.

Crimson eyes drifted toward you for only a second. Long enough to notice the longer sleeves and the careful way you tugged them lower whenever they shifted.

The estate finally fell silent once Ciel declared he had urgent work waiting in his study, though everyone with even half a brain knew he was most likely sitting in perfect silence with a slice of cake.

You escaped outside with a basket of freshly washed linens balanced on your hip.

The breeze was weak, though at least it existed.

You reached for the clothesline.

"So."

You nearly dropped the basket.

Sebastian stood beneath the shade of an old oak tree, one gloved hand resting against the trunk.

"I wondered how long it would take before you startled me today," you sighed.

"My apologies."

His expression suggested the exact opposite.

"You've been watching me."

"I observe everyone."

"You observe me more."

"...Perhaps."

That answer came far too easily. You frowned at him before returning to hanging sheets.

"You should be inside," he said.

"So should you."

"I don't overheat."

"Show off."

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

"You, however, are very warm."

"I'm fine."

"Hm."

Silence settled again but is was far from uncomfortable.

Sebastian rarely filled empty moments just for the sake of noise. After another minute he spoke again.

"May I ask you something?"

"You usually do regardless."

"True."

Another sheet fluttered between you.

"Why do you refuse lighter clothing?"

Your fingers froze. Your eyes widen slightly, caught off guard by the realization that he even noticed something like that

"I don't."

"You do."

"I just..."

"You declined the summer uniform."

You kept your eyes on the linen.

"I preferred this one."

"It is considerably thicker."

"I know."

"You wear cardigans during your free afternoons."

"...Yes."

"I have yet to see your forearms uncovered."

You laughed nervously.

"You're making it sound like a mystery novel."

"It has become one."

You shook out another towel harder than necessary.

"It isn't important."

"It is to me."

That made you stop.

You looked over your shoulder.

"...Why?"

He tilted his head ever so slightly.

"Because something troubles you."

His voice remained calm.

"I dislike unanswered questions."

"There it is."

"What?"

"The butler answer."

"I am a butler."

"No. You're avoiding saying you're worried."

One elegant eyebrow lifted.

"Am I?"

"You are."

A tiny smile curved his lips.

"You continue to be observant."

You looked away before the warmth creeping into your face could become obvious.

"It doesn't matter."

"If it truly did not matter, you would have answered already."

"..."

"You are hiding."

You sighed.

"...I'm just uncomfortable."

"With the weather?"

"With myself."

His gaze remained steady.

"I see."

"No, you don't."

Another moment of silence before he walked closer.

"What part of yourself?"

You laughed softly.

"It sounds ridiculous.... and dumb."

"I assure you, humans have confessed stranger things."

You stared down at your sleeves.

"...I don't like my body. So..." you continued, "...I cover it."

"The heat?"

"I'd rather melt."

He waited.

You hated that patient silence.

It always convinced you to keep talking.

"I'm not... thin."

"As I have noticed."

"I have stretch marks."

"I see."

"I don't like my legs."

"Hm."

"My arms aren't exactly..." You gestured vaguely. "Elegant."

"You've been around beautiful people."

"I work in a mansion."

"Indeed."

"Mey Rin is pretty. Lady Elizabeth is beautiful and always dressed up. Even the women visiting the estate look perfect."

Your voice became quieter.

"I don't."

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then Sebastian asked something entirely unexpected.

"Have you ever seen a marble statue before?"

"...What?"

"A simple question."

"Yes."

"They are admired because they are smooth."

"I suppose."

"And a rose?"

"What about it?"

"It grows with uneven petals."

You blinked.

"It is admired anyway."

"Sebastian..."

"A cat missing half an ear."

You couldn't help smiling.

"Very specific."

"I've met several."

"They're adorable."

"They are.'

His eyes softened lightly.

"No one worthy of admiration ever demanded perfection from them."

You looked at him.

"So why," he asked quietly, "do you demand it from yourself?"

That question landed far harder than expected.

"I just..."

You swallowed.

"I don't want people looking."

"They already do."

Your stomach dropped.

"...What?"

"They notice that you are kind."

He stepped closer.

"They notice you help Finnian whenever he breaks another rake."

"I don't keep count."

"I do."

His lips twitched.

"They notice you always leave tea for Mey Rin after difficult mornings."

"I..."

"They notice your laughter reaches the kitchens before you do."

Your eyes stung.

"They notice you. Not just your body."

You stared at him.

"...You really think that?"

"I know it."

He looked almost amused.

"You humans are fascinating."

"Why?"

"You can catalogue every imagined flaw."

He gently folded one of the linens you'd hung crooked.

"...Yet become completely blind to everything lovely."

Your laugh came out watery.

"You make it sound easy."

"I did not say it was easy."

He turned toward you.

"It will take time."

"...Probably."

"You may continue wearing long sleeves."

"I know."

"I have no intention of forcing you otherwise."

Relief loosened something in your chest.

"But..."

You smiled weakly.

"There it is."

"But I would prefer," he continued, "that you stop believing you must earn the right to exist comfortably."

Before you could answer, the peaceful moment shattered. A loud crash echoed through the open kitchen window.

Glass.

Then another noise.

"...Mey Rin!"

Bard's voice carried across the courtyard with the unmistakable tone of someone who had just witnessed another small disaster.

"I didn't mean to!" came Mey Rin's panicked reply.

A second later something metallic clattered to the floor. You winced instinctively.

"...That sounded expensive."

Sebastian closed his eyes for the briefest moment.

"It usually is."

Another voice drifted outside.

" Mey Rin, please don't touch anything else!" Finnian pleaded.

"...Too late!"

A third crash followed.

You couldn't help laughing.

Sebastian let out the faintest sigh, though there was no real annoyance behind it.

"It appears my presence is required."

"You think?"

"I have developed an unfortunate talent for preventing this estate from collapsing."

"You make it sound like a full time occupation."

"It is."

He turned toward the house, then paused.

Just for a second. His eyes met yours again.

You were still annoyed when you woke up.

Not enough to ruin your morning. Not enough to ruin everything. But just enough that it clung to your ribs like something unsaid. Something unresolved. Like the echo of the small argument you and Sebastian had the night before.

You had tried to bring it up gently. Not everything had to be a dramatic fight. You had planned this for weeks. Just a few hours out. Tea with a few friends. Nothing scandalous. No strange guests. Just familiar faces, a warm café, and the simple act of being around people who made you laugh.

And when you mentioned it, his response had been as calm and cold as glass.

“Valentine’s Day is a foolish mortal tradition. If you wish to indulge in it, do so.”

You had bristled at that.

“You don’t have to like it,” you said, “but I do. And I haven’t seen them in weeks.”

“I see.”

That was the worst part. The way he said I see. Like he was letting you dig your own grave. Like the conversation wasn’t worth continuing because he had already decided how it would end.

You didn’t sleep close to him that night.

You didn’t even say goodnight.

So yes. You woke up annoyed.

The room was warm. The sheets untouched on his side of the bed. He was gone already. Typical.

You rolled out of bed and went to the basin. Washed your face. Tied your robe with a little too much force. You were planning to go anyway. You had already messaged the others the night before and confirmed. He would get over it.

It was just a holiday, right?

Just a silly mortal tradition.

Your clothes were laid out already.

Not the ones you picked.

Not the soft blouse and scarf you had set aside for the café. No. This was something else entirely. Darker. Thicker. Warmer. Made for the weather. Made for longer walks. Layers designed to keep you home.

You frowned. Looked around the room.

"Sebastian?"

No answer. Not even a polite yes, my lady from the next room.

You opened the wardrobe. The clothes you were looking for were gone.

You stood there, fingers still holding the edge of the door, heartbeat suddenly just a little louder than before.

It took another ten minutes to realize your shoes were missing too.

You made your way down the hall with a sharpness in your step that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with being watched.

You didn’t call his name this time.

You just opened the door to the study and stepped inside.

He was already there.

Standing by the window, gloves off, holding a cup of tea like he had all the time in the world.

“You’ve been busy,” you said slowly.

He didn’t look at you yet. “I tend to be.”

“I can’t find my clothes.”

“Then perhaps you should wear what I laid out for you.”

Your jaw clenched. “Sebastian.”

Now he turned.

His eyes moved over you slowly. Robe still slightly open at the collar. Bare feet against the polished wood floor. The tension in your shoulders.

“You’re still upset,” he said softly.

“You hid my things.”

“I adjusted your plans.”

“I had plans.”

He stepped forward, slow and measured.

“Yes. With people who do not live here. Who do not protect you. Who do not understand what you are.” He set the cup down gently on the table beside him. “They do not deserve your company. Not today.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“I do.”

You stared at him.

His expression didn’t change. His voice never rose. It didn’t have to.

“I told you,” he said, stepping closer, “this holiday means nothing to me. I also told you that if you wished to indulge it, you were free to do so.”

“You said that,” you snapped. “But you didn’t mean it. You sat there and acted like I was being foolish for wanting a day with people I care about.”

“I never said you were foolish.” His hand reached out. Tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering against your cheek. “But you are mine. And I do not enjoy being second to anyone. Not even to your harmless little traditions.”

You tried to step back. He did not let you.

“I’m not your prisoner.”

“No,” he murmured, “you are far too precious for that.”

“Then give me back my clothes. I’m going.”

His hand dropped.

And the smile that touched his lips was too soft.

Too calm.

“Be a good girl,” he said slowly, “and spend the day with me.”

You stared up at him.

“Or?”

His eyes darkened.

“Or you will find yourself regretting it.”

The silence stretched.

Not empty.

Heavy.

You wanted to say something sharp. Wanted to throw his words back in his face. Wanted to remind him you were not weak. Not helpless. Not here to be caged in silk and sweet words.

But the way he was looking at you…

It wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t jealousy.

It was possession, laced through affection like a thread pulled tight.

He lifted your hand. Pressed a kiss to your knuckles. One. Then another. Then the inside of your wrist.

“You know I do not like raising my voice,” he said softly. “And I would very much prefer to spend today remembering why I keep you here at all.”

You swallowed hard.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers.

“Be good,” he repeated.

And just like that, your plans disappeared.

You spent Valentine’s Day in the manor.

Wrapped in warmth.

Served by hands that moved too gently for someone who had just threatened you.

He read to you.

Fed you little pieces of dark chocolate he said he made himself.

Sat beside you by the fire and curled your legs into his lap while his fingers traced mindless circles along your thigh.

You didn’t say a word about your friends.

You didn’t ask where your clothes went.

You had asked him weeks ago. You were brushing your hair, sitting cross-legged on the bed in one of his shirts, already tired, already half annoyed with yourself for caring.

“So,” you said without looking at him. “Valentine’s Day. Is that something you ignore entirely, or are you the type to dramatically light a single candle and call it unnecessary?”

He didn’t glance up from the book in his lap. “It is unnecessary.”

You paused. Looked at him over your shoulder. “That’s it?”

Sebastian flipped the page. “It is a fabricated holiday designed to capitalize on fleeting human sentiment.”

You turned fully around and pointed your brush at him. “You say that like most human things aren’t fleeting. That doesn’t stop you from serving tea like it’s a sacred ritual.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Tea is sacred.”

You rolled your eyes and muttered, “Of course it is,” before facing the mirror again. “Well. Humans celebrate it. It’s stupid. But... I don’t know. Sometimes I like stupid things.”

“I’m aware.”

You whipped your brush at him. He caught it effortlessly.

“I hate you.”

“And yet, you are still wearing my shirt.”

You narrowed your eyes, but he was already going back to his book. That had been the end of it.

Almost.

You still got him a gift.

You didn’t call it that, of course. That would mean admitting it was for Valentine’s and not just something you noticed. His pocket watch had been acting up for weeks. Small scratches. The chain slightly kinked. He had adjusted without comment, but you saw it.

So you had it replaced. Same make. Same weight. Same familiar tick. But better. Smoother. And you had it engraved.

Not with anything flowery. Just his initials. And underneath, your own.

You left it on his nightstand. Said nothing.

He said nothing either.

Until Valentine’s morning.

You woke up to the smell of tea. Not just any tea. Your tea. The exact way you made it. With the citrus peel you liked and the one sugar cube instead of two. You sat up slowly, blinked the sleep from your eyes, and reached for the cup already waiting on the side table.

You took one sip and muttered into the rim, “I did not make this.”

“Observant as always,” came his voice from across the room.

You looked over to find him straightening the cuffs of his shirt, already dressed. Already smug.

“So,” you said carefully, “you do celebrate Valentine’s.”

“I do not.”

You squinted. “You made me tea.”

“I make you tea every morning.”

“Not with this blend. This is the one you made that one time and then claimed we ran out of the peel. You made me forage through the pantry for an hour.”

He turned slightly, not facing you. “Perhaps I was saving it for an occasion.”

You grinned against the cup. “And yet you claim not to care.”

“I do not care for the holiday.” He glanced at you over his shoulder, lips curved. “You, however, are a different matter entirely.”

Later, you found the sweets. Your favorites. The ones you mentioned once. Offhand. Late at night after a long day when you had curled into his side and whined that you wanted something chewy and not too sweet and impossible to find.

They were on a plate in the drawing room. Neatly arranged. Not a word attached.

You stared at them. Then at him. He looked up from the fireplace with absolute composure.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re welcome.”

That evening, you walked into the bathing room and froze.

Steam curled gently in the air. The tub was already filled. Warm. The scent of those herbs you liked, the ones he claimed made you smell like a forest witch, hung soft and comforting in the air. The lighting was lower than usual. No flames. Just gentle glow.

“Sebastian?”

“Yes?”

“You drew me a bath.”

“I did.”

You stood there, staring. “I didn’t ask.”

“You did not need to.”

“…You lit candles.”

“I needed to see what I was doing.”

You turned to look at him. He wasn’t even trying to hide the smugness now.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet you will get in that bath, thank me for it, and fall asleep in record time.”

You muttered something entirely unkind and got in anyway.

By the time you dried off and padded back into the bedroom, he was already sitting on the edge of the bed. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Hair slightly mussed. Reading something heavy you didn’t bother asking about.

You didn’t say anything as you crawled under the blanket and let your head find its place against his side. He closed the book without a word. Let one hand fall around your shoulders. Let you curl into him without comment.

You felt him press his lips to your temple once. Then your hand was in his.

He lifted it slowly. Kissed the back of your fingers like he often does.

Neither of you said Happy Valentine’s.

You noticed the first note when you went to grab your tea.

It was tucked neatly under the rim of your favorite cup. The one with the faint chip near the base and a little painted gold trim that had faded with use. You never remembered telling him it was your favorite. You also never remembered needing to.

The paper was smooth. Folded once. Handwriting, of course, precise and clean.

"You look lovely when you’re half-asleep."

You blinked, standing there barefoot in the kitchen, hair still half-pressed against one side of your face from sleep, fingers curled loosely around the paper. And for a second you forgot what you came down here for.

Your first instinct had been to glance around. Ridiculous. He wasn’t hiding behind the curtain, waiting to watch your reaction. That wasn’t his style. He didn’t need to see it to know it worked.

You found the second one in your coat pocket.

You were halfway out the door, wind catching your collar, when your fingers brushed paper again. Same texture. Same fold. You opened it with the edge of your glove still clinging to your wrist.

"You never button the top clasp when you’re in a rush. It makes you look like you belong in the wind."

You stared down at it for a long moment. Then laughed under your breath. Just once. Quiet and warm and so very helpless.

By the time you found the third, you had stopped trying to predict him.

This one had been left between the pages of your book. Not the one you were reading. The one you had mentioned wanting to start, weeks ago, in passing, after dinner, when you were both just sipping tea and letting the fire die out. You hadn’t even picked it up since. But when you opened it out of idle curiosity that afternoon, it was there. Slipped just between page thirteen and fourteen.

"Sometimes I wish I could read with you without reading at all. Just to watch your expression change when you are caught off guard by a sentence."

You pressed that one into the inside of your palm and held it there for a minute. Pressed it like it could slip through your skin and stay with you longer than paper ever could.

No one said anything about Valentine’s Day. Not directly. Not out loud. You hadn’t brought it up. Neither had he.

But the notes kept coming.

One near the tea tray again. Inside the drawer that held the sugar.

"I like when you steal my clothes. You look better in them than in your own. "

Another at your vanity. Tucked just behind the mirror where he knew your fingers would brush eventually.

"You touch your collarbone when you think. I wonder if you know."

And you didn’t. Not really. But now you caught yourself doing it twice, three times, in the span of an hour. And smiled. Every time.

The one that got you though. The one that made you sit down and forget what time it was. That one was waiting under your pillow.

Not in the obvious spot. Not placed neatly like a grand reveal. Just slipped under the corner like a secret he wasn’t even sure you’d find.

But you did.

And this one wasn’t a compliment. Wasn’t a clever observation.

It just read:

"Stay in bed. I’ll be there soon."

And that was it.

You climbed back in without thinking. The note still in your hand.

And sure enough, twenty minutes later, there was the sound of shoes left quietly by the door. A soft shift of fabric. The subtle click of the lamp dimming.

He said nothing when he slipped beneath the covers. Just settled beside you with the weight of someone who belonged there.

You shifted. Reached for him. He was already there.

“You’re late,” you murmured.

“You were patient.”

You leaned in, tucked your face against his collar, and felt his fingers sweep into your hair.

“You wrote all those.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

His lips brushed your forehead as he spoke.

“Because there are things I think every day that I don't have the chance to say. But I didn’t want to forget today.”

You smiled. You didn’t need flowers. You didn’t need chocolate.

You had this.

You had him.

The flicker of candlelight danced across the library’s dark wood shelves, shadows trailing like silk across velvet chairs. Sebastian stood at the far end, sliding a book back into place with that practiced elegance that should’ve been illegal.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to look casual. “Hey,” you called.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, my dear?”

You smirked. Showtime.

“Are you a broom?”

A beat.

“Because you just swept me off my feet.”

He blinked once. Then turned fully to you, head tilting ever so slightly like you’d just spoken ancient Sumerian.

“…Pardon?”

You walked closer, undeterred. “You heard me.”

He stared. “…Are you feverish?”

You grinned. “Only for you.”

A pause. The long kind. That stare, neutral and unreadable, the kind that usually preceded murder or tea.

“…I see,” he said slowly. “Should I alert the young master that you’re… experimenting with human humor? Or… seeking medical attention?”

“Oh come on, that was gold.”

He turned back to the bookshelf. “It was… something.”

But you weren’t done.

The next attempt happened while he was polishing silverware. You leaned on the counter beside him, deliberately close.

“Sebastian?”

“Mm?”

“If I were a cat, I’d spend all nine lives with you.”

He froze, cloth mid-swipe on a candlestick. Slowly, he turned his head. “Are you… trying to distress me?”

You beamed. “Is it working?”

“…In ways I never thought possible.” His voice was perfectly calm. “Should I retrieve a collar and a dish of milk?”

You snorted.

“I meant it romantically.”

“I gathered.” He returned to polishing. “It was still deeply concerning.”

The third time, he caught on early.

You entered the hallway and opened your mouth, only to have him raise a gloved hand without turning.

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

“I can feel it.”

“But—”

“Please. For the sake of the manor’s remaining dignity.”

“Wow,” you muttered, faking offense. “So this is what rejection feels like.”

“I believe it is,” he said calmly, continuing to dust a vase.

You pouted and walked off. “You know, you're not very romantic.”

“I compensate in other ways,” he called smoothly after you.

You blushed. Damn him.

But the night wasn’t over.

Later, much later, you sat beside him in bed. The air was warm, the room quiet, and for once, Sebastian was reading, not working. You scooted closer, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Hey.”

“Yes?”

You bit your lip. Then whispered:

“Are you a time traveler? Because I see you in my future.”

There was a pause.

A long one.

His chest rose slowly with a breath. “That one,” he said at last, “was particularly awful.”

You grinned. “Admit it. I’m wearing you down.”

He didn’t reply right away. You peeked up.

And there it was.

That smile.

Small and barely there like a secret breaking free from the corners of his mouth.

Success.

But before you could revel in it, he turned toward you, voice lower.

“Very well.” He closed the book, eyes glinting. “Would you like to hear mine?”

“…What.”

He leaned close, lips brushing your ear.

“Are you dessert?” he murmured.

Your heart skipped.

“Because I’d very much like to have you… after dinner.”

You choked.

“Sebastian—!”

“Hm?” Innocent eyes. “Too forward?”

“You— you can’t just—!”

He took your wrist gently, brushing his thumb along your skin.

“Oh, but I thought we were exchanging lines.” His tone dropped, velvet-wrapped sin. “I was simply… reciprocating.”

You buried your face in his chest. “I hate you.”

“I’m wounded.”

“You ruin everything.”

“I perfect everything,” he corrected, pulling you closer, laughter rumbling low in his throat. “Because I am—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumbled, voice muffled. “One hell of a butler.”

“And,” he added smoothly, “one hell of a lover.”

Your face flamed.

It was raining again. Like it has yesterday and the day before.

You were already up, flour-dusted and humming quietly, the windows fogged from the ovens working overtime. Tuesdays were quiet. Just enough traffic to keep the counter warm but not enough to drown out thought.

But this Tuesday…

You’d hidden the parcel behind the flour tins beneath the counter. A spot rarely touched, even by Sebastian. It was wrapped in smooth black cloth, tied with a narrow crimson ribbon.

Inside was a book. One he’d once mentioned absently, in that way he often did. Offhand, like it meant nothing. An old philosophy volume, long out of print. He’d never found the time to get it himself.

Beside it, a small tin of honey-clove pastries. Warm and delicate. No chocolate. You remembered.

"You’re unusually tense this morning," came the smooth voice near your ear.

You turned.

He was already inside.

"I locked the door," you said, hands on your hips. "Did you—"

"Let myself in?"

He gave a slight tilt of his head, eyes shining like garnets warmed by fire.

"You left it unlatched."

"You picked it."

"Semantics."

He moved behind the counter without asking, like he always did, eyes landing on the tray of fresh croissants still steaming from the oven.

"That was for Mrs. Fortenberry," you warned, watching him lift one delicately with those annoyingly perfect fingers.

"I’m only looking," he murmured, though the way he brought it close suggested otherwise. He held it near his face, inhaled softly, a faint smile ghosting his lips.

"Sebastian."

"I don’t intend to eat it." He turned it slowly in his hand, almost admiring the golden layers. "But you’ve improved. There’s more butter in the fold, and you let it proof longer. I can smell the difference."

You stared.

He gave a slight hum, brushing a gloved thumb over the crust.

"I’ll deliver it myself," he added, tucking it neatly into one of your bakery’s parchment-lined bags. "She’ll never know I touched it."

"You didn’t even want it," you muttered.

"Wrong. I want everything you make," he said without looking at you. "I simply don’t need it."

That one landed.

Your lips twitched despite yourself.

Stupid demon.

Always knowing just how to say it.

"So," he said after a moment of silence, "what are we celebrating?"

You blinked.

"Who said anything about celebrating?"

"You’re humming."

"I always hum."

"You only hum that tune when you’re nervous or sentimental."

You paused, eyes narrowing.

"You listen to what I hum?"

Sebastian raised an brow.

"My dear. I listen to everything you do."

You tossed a dishtowel at him. He caught it with one hand, effortless, like always, and folded it neatly over his arm as if you had handed it to him on purpose.

You leaned back against the counter, watching him far too closely.

“You’re early,” you said, changing the subject. “Suspiciously early. Should I be worried?”

Sebastian’s lips curved faintly.

“The Earl is buried beneath paperwork this morning,” he replied. “Contracts, reports, letters from Her Majesty. He will not emerge for several hours.”

You hummed.

“So you escaped.”

“I would not call it escape,” he said smoothly. “I simply thought it wise to procure pastries from a certain bakery the Earl seems… fond of.”

You rolled your eyes, already reaching for parchment bags.

“He doesn’t just seem fond. He nearly declared war when I ran out of strawberry tarts last month.”

Sebastian allowed the faintest hint of amusement to show.

“Yes. I recall.”

You packed a small selection. Strawberry tarts. Lemon cakes. Two almond biscuits he always took, even when he claimed they were unnecessary. You handed the bag to him across the counter.

He reached for his wallet.

You pushed his hand away.

“Don’t,” you said. “You know I don’t take money from you.”

“My dear, this is a business.”

“And you fix my oven when it breaks, carry flour sacks that weigh more than me, and chase off drunk customers without being asked. We’re even.”

He watched you for a moment, quiet, measuring. Then he closed his wallet without another word.

“As you wish.”

You hesitated. Then softer, almost casual.

“I made something new today,” you said. “Honey clove pastries. I wanted… you to try them.”

His gaze shifted immediately. Focused. Warmer.

“For me?”

You pretended to busy your hands, placing one small pastry on a plate and sliding it toward him.

“Don’t make it dramatic. Just taste it.”

Sebastian removed his glove with slow precision. His fingers were pale against the warm pastry. He broke off a small piece, brought it to his lips, and tasted.

Silence.

You tried not to stare. Failed completely.

“Well?”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“The honey is dark,” he said quietly. “Not overly sweet. The clove is subtle. Warm. It lingers.”

Your heart thumped once.

“And?”

He swallowed.

“And it is… unmistakably yours.”

That did something to your chest. Something soft.

You cleared your throat quickly and reached beneath the counter, pulling out a wrapped object you had hidden there since morning.

“I have something else,” you said, suddenly very aware of your hands. “For you.”

He stilled.

You placed the book in front of him. Worn leather. Old pages. Carefully restored spine.

His eyes flickered once. Twice.

“You mentioned it,” you said quietly. “Months ago. Said you’d read it long ago but never owned a copy. I found this one in a secondhand shop near the river. Thought… you should have it.”

Sebastian did not move immediately.

Then, very slowly, he picked it up.

His thumb brushed over the faded title. The faint crease of age. The weight of something remembered.

“You remembered,” he said.

“Of course I did.”

A long pause.

"You shouldn’t spoil me,” he murmured.

You scoffed under your breath, hands finding your hips.

“I spoil you constantly,” you said. “You just pretend not to notice.”

His lips twitched, but he stayed silent, eyes still on the book.

You stepped around the counter, slower now, brushing powdered sugar off your apron as you came to stand beside him.

“I know you don’t have a birthday,” you said. “Not in the way humans do. No date. No year. Just… existence.”

Sebastian’s head tilted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I also know you don’t care for celebrations. Or gifts. Or attention.”

Still, no protest. Just quiet listening.

“But I still wanted a day for you,” you continued. “Something that’s yours. Not ours. Not mine. You.”

You took a breath.

“So I picked today. The day you walked in, soaking wet, asking if the mille-feuille was handmade. The day I met you. That’s the one I’m taking. That’s your day now.”

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable for a second too long.

Then something softened. Barely. But you felt it.

“And this is how you celebrate,” he said quietly. “With rare books and clove pastries.”

You shrugged, suddenly shy.

“Would you rather a paper hat and balloons?”

Sebastian smiled. Slowly.

“No,” he said. “This is perfect.”

He looked down at the book again. Turned it over in his hands. Touched the leather like it meant more than parchment and glue ever should.

Then he looked at you.

“I will remember this day,” he said. “Even if you never remind me again.”

You rolled your eyes, but your throat felt tight anyway.

“I’m going to remind you every year. Get used to it.”

He stepped closer.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said, voice low and warm.

Then he stepped closer. His gloved fingers rose, slow and deliberate, brushing along your jaw before resting beneath your chin. He tilted your face up, eyes never leaving yours.

“May I?” he asked, like he didn’t already know the answer.

And then he kissed you.

His lips were soft. Softer than they had any right to be. Warm and careful.

His hand left your chin to cradle your cheek, thumb tracing the faintest curve just below your eye.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. Just enough to let you breathe.

His hand stayed on your cheek, thumb now brushing softly along your skin.

"Happy not-a-birthday,” you murmured.

summary: you try to bake for him. it goes terribly. he still thinks you're perfect.

You had been confident at first.

Not wildly confident. Not foolishly bold. Just that quiet kind of optimism that convinces you that flour and sugar cannot possibly betray you that badly.

You were wrong.

The first batch burned because you forgot about it. You had sat on the counter waiting for the oven to preheat and somehow ended up staring at the wall for five full minutes thinking about how Sebastian’s hands look when he rolls up his sleeves.

By the time you remembered, smoke was already curling lazily out of the oven like it was mocking you.

You opened the door. Immediately regretted it. Coughed. Waved your hand dramatically in the air like that would fix anything.

Charcoal. That was not a cookie. That was evidence.

You threw them out. Opened a window. Tried again.

The second batch looked promising. You watched it like a hawk this time. Too intensely, actually. Because you panicked, turned the heat down too much, and ended up with something pale, flat, and disturbingly moist in the middle.

You poked one.

It deflated slightly.

“…No.”

At this point your hair was dusted with flour, your apron had a mysterious smear of chocolate across the front, and the counter looked like a small baking war zone. Sugar spilled. Bowls stacked wrong. A single egg shell fragment you could not locate the source of.

You stared at the tray.

Then you stared at the bowl.

Then the oven.

You slammed the spoon down on the counter and glared at everything like it owed you an apology.

“This is a scam,” you muttered.

Louder this time, “Baking is a scam.”

You pointed aggressively at the tray. “You do everything right. You measure. You mix. You follow instructions like a law-abiding citizen. And what do you get? Cake sludge.”

The oven did not respond. Neither did the cookie.

You leaned on your elbows and narrowed your eyes at the bowl of batter. “You’re next.”

The spoon slipped. You flung flour accidentally onto your sleeve.

“Oh my god.”

You slapped the countertop. “I hate baking. I hate this. People who enjoy this are lying.”

There was flour in your hair. Sugar in your shoes. Possibly a piece of butter on the floor.

You were about five seconds from throwing the whole tray out the window when you felt it.

That familiar presence.

“You seem busy.”

You froze.

Slowly turned around.

Sebastian stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, coat still perfectly neat despite having clearly just come inside. His eyes moved over the room first. The counter. The oven. The tray of tragic cookies. Then finally you.

Covered in flour. Hair messy. Holding a wooden spoon like a weapon.

“…This is not what it looks like,” you said.

His brow lifted slightly. “I am very curious to hear what you think it looks like.”

You sighed. “I tried to bake for you.”

“Twice,” he added mildly.

Your eyes widened. “How do you know it was twice.”

“The smoke earlier was quite noticeable.”

You groaned and turned back to the tray. “They’re awful. Don’t even try to be polite about it.”

He stepped closer. Too close. Leaning slightly over your shoulder.

“May I?” he asked.

You hesitated. “You’re going to die.”

“I doubt it.”

He picked one up between his fingers. Looked at it. Turned it slightly. Examined the texture like it was an artifact.

Then he bit into it.

You watched his face like your life depended on it.

He chewed slowly.

Once.

Twice.

You waited for the commentary. The polite critique. The teasing remark.

Instead, he swallowed.

Said nothing.

Just stepped closer to you and leaned down.

Pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, warm and unhurried, right where you were dusted with flour.

“You are far sweeter than anything you could bake,” he said quietly.

Your face heated instantly. “That is unfair.”

“But accurate.”

You laughed despite yourself. Rested your forehead briefly against his chest. “I wanted to do something nice.”

“You did.”

“These are terrible.”

“They are made by you.”

You turned to look up at him. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you keep me.”

That night, after you had given up on the kitchen and cleaned the worst of the mess, he disappeared.

You did not notice at first. You were curled up on the sofa, half asleep, blanket pulled over your legs, still smelling faintly like sugar and flour.

Then you smelled something else.

Warm. Sweet. Real.

You followed it back into the dining room.

The table was set.

Candles. Soft light. Two plates.

And in the center, a small dessert arranged carefully. Chocolate glazed. Perfectly shaped. Garnished with fruit you recognized from your failed attempt earlier.

You stared at it. Then at him.

“You used my ingredients,” you said.

“Of course.”

“You could have used anything.”

“But this is better.”

He pulled out your chair for you and waited until you sat before taking his own seat.

You took a bite.

It was perfect.

You closed your eyes briefly. “I hate you.”

He smiled. Just a little.

“You love me.”

You reached across the table and took his hand instead of arguing.

Yeah.

You wake because the bed is cold on one side.

Not empty. Just missing the familiar weight.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, listening. The whole manor exhales around you: a bunch of distant clocks ticking, wind tapping the tall windows.

You sigh in annoyance. “Of course,” you mutter, already pushing the blanket aside.

Bare soles pressed against the chilly stone. Your robe is loosely tied, barely holding together. You don't even attempt to adjust it. He's witnessed you in worse states. Hair tousled and wild. Half awake. Irritable. Sensitive and on your period.

You follow the faint glow down the hall.

The library door is open.

He is there. Of course he is. Rest is a foreign word to him.

Sleeves rolled up, black vest loosened, gloves discarded on the desk beside scattered documents. Candlelight paints gold along his cheekbone and jaw. He looks more like posing for a painting instead of working. One hand holds a pen and the other holds a cup of tea. Your cup to be specific.

He does not look up.

“You’re sulking,” he says calmly.

You stop in the doorway. “I am not sulking.”

“You sighed before you even entered the room.”

“That does not prove anything.”

Now he looks up. Amused. Soft around the eyes in that way only you ever get to see.

“Come here,” he says.

You walk over and drop into the chair beside him, folding your legs under yourself. He immediately reaches out, tugging you closer with two fingers hooked in your sleeve.

“You left,” you say quietly.

“I was working.”

“At three in the morning.”

“Yes.”

You glance at the paperwork. “You do not need to do this all tonight.”

“I do not need to,” he agrees. “But you fall asleep easier when I am nearby.”

You blink. “You noticed that?”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Darling, I notice when you breathe differently.”

You roll your eyes but lean into his side anyway. He shifts instantly, adjusting his posture so your head rests more comfortably against his shoulder.

“Tell me,” he says. "I know something is bothering you."

You sigh. “There was a man today.”

His pen stops.

Completely this time. Eyes focused on you.

“Go on.”

You stare into the fire. “One of the visiting nobles. Tall. Too confident. Thought being charming meant he could put his hand on my lower back.”

Your jaw tightens. “Did not even ask. Just assumed.”

Sebastian sets the pen down slowly. Too carefully.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. I moved away.” You swallow. “But it was gross. I hate when they lean too close and smile like they are entitled to your attention.”

His jaw tightens almost invisibly.

“And what did you do?” he asks quietly.

“I told him to step back. Politely. Because apparently I still have to be polite.”

A breath passes through Sebastian’s nose. Controlled. Sharp.

“If he ever touches you again,” he says evenly, “I will remove his hand.”

You glance up at him. “You are serious.”

“I am always serious when it comes to you.”

You soften a little. “I know you would have handled it. I just wanted to tell you.”.

“I appreciate that you trust me with this,” he says quietly. “You do not have to carry it alone. And next time? He will find himself missing a limb.”

You nod. “It made me feel small. For a second.”

His hand comes up, cupping your cheek gently, guiding your gaze to his.

“You are not small,” he says firmly. “And no one in this house or outside of it gets to treat you like something to be taken.”

Your throat tightens.

“Thank you.”

His fingers are warm and steady on your cheek. He leans in without saying anything else like the decision was made long before you even looked at him. His lips brush against yours softly.

“Any other burdens for tonight?” he murmurs.

You sniff. “Ciel was annoying.”

“As expected.”

“And I spilled tea on my sleeve.”

“A tragedy.”

“And my feet hurt.”

Now his mouth curves. “That one I can fix.”

Before you can protest, he stands and guides you to sit on the chaise. He kneels in front of you smoothly, already removing your slippers.

“Sebastian, you do not have to.”

“I want to.”

His hands are warm. Steady. Careful as they work the tension from your tired muscles.

You sigh helplessly.

“You are unfair.”

“I am efficient.”

You laugh quietly, fingers brushing through his hair. He leans into the touch without hesitation.

“Stay with me tonight,” you whisper.

“I planned to.”

“In bed.”

His eyes flick up. “Bold request”

“You'll never leave again.”

He lifts you easily into his arms.

“That's something I won't mind.”

Your arms slide around his neck automatically.

“I feel safe with you,” you murmur.

His voice drops low near your ear.

Sweet.

The way it whimpered quietly, ears twitching with every sound. The way it pressed itself into the farthest corner as if trying to disappear. You knew that feeling. You had been that small, weak thing not too long ago lost, starving, surviving on scraps and stolen bread. No home. No name. No one.

This dog was you, not so long ago.

But you had been lucky. Someone had reached out.

Isabel, Furlan… and Levi.

The thought of him alone pulled a quiet smile to your lips. He always looked so cold, so detached a living statue of steel and discipline but you’d seen beneath that armor. He had a heart. He'd shown it to you more than once.

Like that day, months ago, when those men had caught you stealing bread. You thought they’d break your bones. Then Levi appeared swift and silent like death itself and left them crawling in the dirt. You only learned his name because they’d screamed it after him.

The next day, you’d wandered for hours with a bag of fruit you somehow managed to collect, determined to thank him. Finding Levi had been harder than expected. Just when you were about to give up, you overheard whispers about a trio that used vertical maneuvering gear and where they were last seen.

With your heart pounding, you found your way there.

And there he was. Levi.

Expressionless. Still. Only the slight widening of his pupils betrayed that he recognized you. Nervous beyond belief, you shoved the fruit into his hands, mumbled something like a thank-you, and bolted before he could say a word.

You’d wanted to bury yourself from embarrassment later but the memory always made you smile.

After that? Somehow you kept running into him. "Coincidence," you told yourself until it wasn’t. Until you got in trouble again, and this time, it was worse.

You would’ve been done for —until Levi came. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t speak. He simply picked you up and escaped with you, gear firing, shadows flying past. And just like that, you were safe again. With him.

From that day on, you lived with Levi and the others.

His excuse? "So you don’t go getting yourself killed. This way I can keep an eye on you."

A bark snapped you out of the memory.

You turned toward the puppy. Still in the box. Still shaking. Slowly, you knelt in front of it.

Footsteps.

A group of men were approaching from the alleyway, and your gut screamed trouble. No time to think. You scooped the dog up into your arms. It was so small. Fragile. Breakable.

Levi was going to kill you.

But you couldn't leave it behind.

Clutching the dog close, you ran.

You darted through hidden alleys and forgotten tunnels the shortcuts and escape routes you'd learned from the others until at last, you reached your hideout. Empty. Good.

Straight to the bathroom. The dog needed a bath.

Easier said than done.

Turns out, cleaning a terrified stray wasn’t so simple. Especially when it shook itself every five seconds, splashing water everywhere. You were soaked. The bathroom looked like a mudslide. But the dog? It looked… alive again. Clean fur. Shining eyes. Like it had hope.

You had no time to bask in your achievement.

Levi would have a stroke if he saw this mess.

You scrubbed the bathroom clean with all the urgency of a soldier on duty, mopped every pawprint, and were just about to carry the dog to your room when you heard the front door open.

Panic.

You turned just in time to see the puppy wiggle free and sprint straight to Levi’s feet, barking excitedly.

Damn.

There they were: Levi, Furlan, and Isabel. Frozen in the doorway, staring down at the small bundle of fur wagging its tail at Levi’s boots.

Bad.

This was bad.

You slowly walked over, trying to act casual. Levi’s expression was unreadable, but you could already hear the judgment in his voice.

“What is that?”

Isabel grinned, practically melting. “A dog, obviously.”

If looks could kill, Isabel would’ve been a corpse.

Levi narrowed his eyes. “Better question why the hell is it here?”

Your heart was hammering. But you stood your ground.

“I… I brought him,” you began, already regretting your choice of words. “I thought… maybe we could keep him and—”

“Wrong.” Levi cut you off, sharp and cold.

Furlan placed a hand gently on Levi’s shoulder. A subtle gesture. One you’d come to understand. It meant: Listen. Just this once.

You looked Levi in the eyes.

“He stays,” you said. Firm. Unshaking. “You didn’t leave me behind when I was just as lost. You gave me a home. A family. I can’t turn my back on him. He won’t survive out there.”

Silence.

Levi’s stare burned through you. His face was blank, unreadable as always. Then, finally, he exhaled a tired sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He stepped closer, meeting your gaze.

“Your dog, your responsibility. He stays but you feed him, clean up after him, and if he shits on my floor, you’re scrubbing it with your toothbrush.”

Your chest exploded with relief.

You launched forward and wrapped your arms around him.

“Thank you,” you mumbled into his shirt.

Isabel let out a delighted squeal behind you. Furlan just smiled.

And Levi?

You arrived early. For once. The lecture hall was nearly empty, flooded with cold morning light, dust floating in through the tall windows like lazy snow. You made your way to your usual seat third row, by the window, perfect view, easy exit.

Except someone was already there. Legs crossed, a hand resting on a thick, ancient-looking book, face like it had been carved out of smug.

Sebastian Michaelis.

Notorious know-it-all. Too polite for his own good. Sharp-tongued, quick-witted and unfortunately devastatingly hard to ignore. Bastard.

You stopped in front of him. "That’s my seat."

He looked up slowly, lips curling into the barest hint of a smile. "Is it now?"

"I sit there every lecture."

"Mm. So you do.” He didn’t move. “But you’re late."

"It’s ten minutes early."

“Exactly. You’re late. I’ve been here fifteen.”

You stared at him. He turned a page unbothered.

The nerve.

You huffed, dropped your bag beside the seat next to him, and sat down. Not your usual chair. Close enough to be irritating. Close enough that you could smell his cologne.

You didn’t comment. He did.

“You’re sulking.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.” He leaned slightly toward you, voice low and casual. “Would you like me to stand and let you switch? I could make a scene. Dramatically apologize. Draw everyone’s eyes.”

You glanced around. A few other students had trickled in. You elbowed him lightly, but not that lightly.

He chuckled under his breath. “Feisty this morning.”

"You’re in my seat."

"You said that already." He finally looked at you, eyes a shade too red for daylight. "Tell me. If I moved, would you feel better? Or would you miss the chance to glare at me all hour?"

You turned to him, dry as a desert. "You think I like sitting next to you?"

"I think," he said, with that same insufferable calm, "you haven’t moved."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Glared harder.

Sebastian tilted his head, gaze flicking down briefly, then back to your face like he was dissecting you for fun.

"You always wear that necklace when you're nervous."

You looked down instinctively and regretted it. "Cute," he said.

You hated him but you also didn’t move.

He folded his hands in front of him, clearly enjoying himself. “If it helps, I did bring you something.”

You blinked. “What?”

He pulled a wrapped chocolate bar from his coat pocket. Set it on your desk. It was your favorite brand.

You didn’t touch it. "Are you bribing me?"

"Think of it as a peace offering."

"Why?"

"Because," he said, and leaned just slightly closer, enough to make your skin prickle "you get more flustered when you’re mad at me. And I prefer you just flustered."

You stared at him like he grew a second head.

And then before you could say anything the professor walked in and started the lecture.

You didn’t move back to your seat.

So you lay there in quiet misery, head resting on the pillow, trying not to let the frustration get the better of you.

You hadn’t expected anyone to check on you. Sebastian had been busy all afternoon. You had seen him hurrying around the estate, carrying out Ciels orders without pause. You thought perhaps he would glance your way, maybe offer a polite remark. You certainly didn’t think he would notice you had barely eaten. Or that you had spent most of the day avoiding eye contact, keeping your arms protectively folded around your middle.

So when the door eased open with the soft creak of oiled hinges, you assumed for a moment you were imagining things.

Sebastian stepped inside, his movements unhurried. In his hands was a tray, tea, a warm towel carefully folded, a small plate of sweets, and something else you could not quite make out through the low light. His face, as always, was unreadable. But there was a subtle softness in the way he approached. Not quite concern. Something quieter than that.

"I took the liberty," he said, setting the tray on your nightstand, "of preparing a few things that might help."

You blinked up at him, momentarily unsure how to respond.

"I am fine," you said, out of reflex more than truth.

He raised a brow, gaze calm, unimpressed. "You are lying rather poorly tonight."

You frowned, but before you could argue, he knelt by the bed and gently lifted the old heat pack from your stomach. Without needing to ask, he replaced it with the warm towel, perfectly heated and folded to the right size. His fingers brushed your side, gloved and steady, and the immediate heat drew a small sigh from your lips.

"You didn’t have to do all this," you murmured.

His eyes met yours again, this time with a trace of something firmer. "I am not in the habit of ignoring you."

The blanket was adjusted with care, tucked around your waist. Then he moved to pour you a cup of tea, the steam curling in delicate trails above the rim. You watched him in silence.

He handed you the cup, and instead of sitting beside you, he climbed onto the bed and shifted behind you. His arms slid carefully around your waist, hugging you from behind. You leaned into him instinctively, your spine easing against the firm, warm presence of his chest.

"You should not try to endure this alone," he said quietly. "Pain has a way of making even the strongest foolishly stubborn."

You took a sip. The tea was just the right temperature, the faintest hint of mint beneath something floral and soft. It helped. A little.

"Thank you," you said.

"You are most welcome," he replied. "Although, I should mention, you have gone rather pale. Paler than usual, which is saying something."

You rolled your eyes. "Charming."

He gave a small smile. "I aim to please."

Then he tilted his head slightly, considering you.

"You have not eaten properly today," he said. It was not a question.

"No appetite," you admitted. "Feels like my stomach is turning itself inside out."

He made a thoughtful sound and reached for the small plate he had brought. There were bite-sized pieces of soft bread, lightly buttered, and a few simple sweets, nothing too rich. He offered you one, not forcing, just holding it patiently in reach.

You hesitated, then took it, nibbling slowly.

Sebastian stayed close, his arm still wrapped gently around you. His fingers moved slowly over your arm, steady and rhythmic, like he was coaxing tension out of you without a word.

"You do not need to speak," he said softly. "I will stay until you sleep. Or until you send me away, whichever you prefer."

You gave a tired smile. "You’re not going to be needed elsewhere?"

He leaned in closer, enough that his voice dropped just for you. "Nothing else in this manor takes priority over your comfort."

Your cheeks flushed at the sincerity in his tone.

"Embarrassed?" he asked, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes. "I would think you would be used to my attention by now."

"I’m used to the attention," you muttered. "Not the gentleness."

His fingers slowed their motion. His gaze searched yours for a long, quiet moment.

"Then I will make it familiar," he said. "Until it feels like second nature."

He pressed a kiss to your temple. Soft. Steady. Then one more, just above your brow.

And with his arms around you, the tea warm in your hands, and the towel easing the worst of the ache, you allowed yourself to relax for the first time that day.

The room had settled into a kind of hush, the kind that only comes in the moments between wakefulness and dreams. The candlelight had burned lower, flickering quietly on the nightstand, casting long shadows against the wall.

You’d stopped sipping your tea a while ago, your hands now resting loosely over the cup as it cooled. Sebastian gently took it from your grasp without a word, setting it aside, then pulled the blanket a little higher around you.

His embrace remained constant, warm and steady against your back, fingers lightly stroking your arm in slow, looping patterns. Your body had softened into him completely, and your eyes were fluttering with the weight of oncoming sleep.

But you didn’t want to sleep. Not quite yet.

“You always know what I need,” you murmured, barely above a breath. "Thank you.".

Sebastian’s voice was low, right by your ear. “It’s my duty.”

You shifted a little, letting your head rest against his shoulder. “No, it’s more than that. You could’ve just brought tea and left. But you stayed.”

“I did,” he said, as if there had never been a question. “You didn’t truly believe I would let you suffer alone in silence, did you?”

You hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “Sometimes it feels easier not to bother anyone.”

“Then allow me to be the exception,” he whispered. “You are never a bother. Not to me.”

The words sank into you, soothing something deeper than the ache in your stomach. You closed your eyes, letting them stay shut this time.

“…Do you ever get tired?” you asked softly, half-drifting now.

“Tired?”

“Of taking care of everything. Of me, the other servants..".

There was a pause. Not long enough to feel like hesitation, but enough to mean something.

“Not when it’s you,” he said, voice almost a murmur. “In truth, I find it… grounding.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “That sounds backwards.”

“Perhaps. But it is true. You bring balance to things that would otherwise feel empty.”

Your chest tightened at the quiet honesty in his tone. “You always sound so composed. So perfect.”

“And yet, I find myself watching over you far more than I should,” he said, brushing his nose lightly against your hair. “Does that sound perfect to you?”

A smile crept across your lips, even as your breathing slowed. “Sounds like someone’s a little obsessed.”

“Only a little?” he whispered, the corners of his mouth curving against your skin.

“Mm… Maybe more.”

You felt him press one last kiss into your hair, slow and tender.

“Sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

You didn’t even realize how tired you really were. One moment you were just enjoying to be held and the next, you had fallen asleep without meaning to.

The first thing you noticed was that the pain had not fully left. The dull ache still lingered low in your abdomen like a quiet, unwelcome guest. But it was softer now. Manageable. The second thing you noticed was warmth, not just from the blanket but from the steady presence of Sebastian's arm draped over your waist.

He had not left.

You blinked your eyes open slowly, greeted by the pale morning light slipping through the curtains. When you shifted slightly, you felt it. His hand resting against your stomach tightened just a little.

"You are awake," he said from behind you. His voice was smooth and calm.

You nodded, voice thick. "How long have you been lying there?"

"For a while," he said without hesitation. "I made sure your breathing was even. That you were warm. That your color had returned."

You turned your head just a little. "So you were watching me sleep?"

"I prefer the term supervising your recovery," he replied with a hint of amusement.

You let out a quiet groan. "That might be worse."

Sebastian shifted then. He slowly sat up, brushing your hair gently away from your face. He readjusted the blanket with practiced care, like even the smallest wrinkle deserved his attention.

"You have not eaten properly since last night," he said, rising to his feet. "Your energy will drop quickly if you do not replenish your blood sugar. You also need something gentle to ease the cramping."

You squinted at him through the morning light. "Sebastian, you sound like a doctor.'

"I would hope I am far better than most doctors," he said, already walking toward the door. "Give me ten minutes. Do not get up. That is not a suggestion."

He vanished down the hall, his footsteps light and deliberate. And true to his word, ten minutes later the door opened again. He backed into the room, a silver tray balanced expertly in one hand.

The tray held a fresh pot of tea, toast drizzled with honey, a warm bowl of porridge with a sprinkle of cinnamon, and a few thin slices of pear arranged in a small dish. It was all perfectly laid out, as if served in a royal suite.

Sebastian set it down beside you, then propped a pillow behind your back to help you sit up.

"This feels like being babied," you mumbled as you reached for the tea.

Sebastian tilted his head. "If your idea of being babied includes anti-inflammatory foods, hydration monitoring, and properly arranged pillows, then yes. I am absolutely guilty."

You laughed under your breath. "You are enjoying this."

"I enjoy watching you follow instructions without resistance. That is a rare delight."

"You are not subtle, you know."

"I am not trying to be," he said as he gently placed another blanket over your lap. "Now eat. When you are finished, I will prepare a bath."

"A bath?"

"There is a blend of salts and herbs that may help with the muscle tension. It will also spare me the displeasure of watching you wince every time you move."

You looked up at him, surprised by the softness buried beneath his words.

"You are being really sweet."

"No. I am being efficient."

You gave him a small smirk. "Liar."

He paused, then leaned down. His lips brushed the side of your head, his voice low and entirely sincere.

"Only for you."

me: groaning dramatically on the couch, buried in a blanket

sebastian: places a warm teacup in my hands without a word

me: sniffles i think this is how i die

sebastian: sits behind me, starts massaging my lower back

sebastian: "Highly unlikely. Though your flair for tragedy is, as always, impressive."

me: melts

sebastian: "Drink your tea. Then I’ll run the bath. We are not negotiating."