— the merchant

𓋜 BOOTH №1 : THE MUSIC TENT — slots: 0/5

step into the sound tent and leave with a mini playlist made just for your selfship.

your ticket must include: ✧ your selfship ✧ any tropes associated with your ship / your ship's dynamic ✧ the vibe you're after ( yearning? angst? honeymoon-phase fluff? ) ✧ genres you love — and any you absolutely don't want! ✧ if possible, one song you already associate with them

your prize: 5 songs curated for your selfship!

𓋜 BOOTH №2 : THE KISSING BOOTH — slots: 10/10 - CLOSED!

pucker up! tell me about yourself and i'll match you with your carnival sweetheart.

your ticket must include: ✧ which fandom(s) you'd like to be matched from ✧ any characters you do NOT want to be matched with ✧ your name, pronouns, zodiac sign, and mbti ✧ anything about yourself you're willing to share! likes, dislikes, hobbies, pet peeves, love language — the more you give me, the better the match!

your prize: a matchup + headcanons of what you two would get up to at the carnival.

𓋜 BOOTH №3 : THE PHOTO BOOTH — slots: 0/5

say cheese! commemorate your selfship with a souvenir moodboard.

your ticket must include: ✧ your selfship ✧ a physical description of yourself ( hair color/texture, skin tone, etc. ) ✧ any aesthetics associated with your ship ✧ your favorite color ✧ the setting or AU, if any!

your prize: a moodboard for your selfship!

The second the words passed the threshold of your mouth, a sinking feeling spread through your chest. You did not often permit yourself regret—that was a feeling that required dwelling on choices already made, and that accomplished remarkably little. Whenever possible, you preferred decisiveness, yet this—

The glint in Suo Hayato's eyes hinted at the possibility of embarrassment to befall you.

There was a distinct burning beneath the skin of your cheeks before he spoke so much as a syllable. One hand of his came to adjust the cuff of the other in an unnecessarily slow and deliberate motion, as though he needed to make a show of thinking about it.

The performance was almost insulting.

"Kissing practice," he repeated the words slowly, like he could taste them the way one would honey. His gaze rested on your face and that damning heat in an inquiring, assessing way; curiosity and amusement weaselling their way into his bright eye. Stark in comparison to the black of his eyepatch. "And you came to me, of all people."

Of course, curiosity in ways that implied he was not at all surprised to find himself being called to your chamber.

"Would you rather I fetch somebody else?"

You could not help the rise of defence within the folds of your voice at the way his mouth pocketed a certain little smile. It was small enough that you might have missed it had you not known him since childhood—unfortunately.

The same smile he wore whenever your fencing instructor praised your footwork and then pointed out the flaws in your posture whilst your father spoke of how Suo's agility would yield great results in the sport; whenever your mother lamented—within perfect earshot of every servant—that yet another promising gentleman had written to your family to express his admiration yet having to politely withdraw his intentions.

And especially that little smile seemed to emerge whenever you attempted to order him about for reasons that had very little to do with his employment and everything to do with testing his patience and ensuring you had room to breathe.

Insufferable, if you were asked.

Though the worst of it all was indeed that he had every right to appear so composed. His presence in your chambers at such an hour, whilst certainly improper, was not entirely inexplicable. As an apprentice head butler, the smooth running of the household rested largely upon his shoulders now that your father's longtime steward had started delegating and relinquishing responsibilities to prepare his apprentice.

Should your bell have rung after retiring for the night, it would naturally be Suo who answered. The burden—or privilege?—of his station.

No one, you hoped with increasing desperation, would imagine that the mistress of the estate had summoned him to ask—

"You promised me before that you would help with whatever I required you for. If this shall prove out of your expertise, however, I have no qualms to calling for the last lord who sought my favour."

You folded your hands together in your lap. "I am certain he would be delighted."

"And, pray tell, what is that little lordling's name?"

The serene look on his face as nearly convincing—to you, the mocking hidden in the widening of his smile, the drive to get you to admit your innermost desires reflected in the rise of his brow; and Suo was quite selfish like that: expecting you to lay yourself bare whilst he kept even his face hidden from you—an unfortunate fondness of his to befall you.

"Irrelevant. It could be any urchin from the streets, even."

He knew you were lying and he also knew you were aware of it. As children, he could identify your falsehoods by the twitch at the corner of your mouth before the governess even realised that you had spoken them aloud. And even now, as adults, he head learned the many different ways you attempted to hide your feelings—him as he stood at your doorway with the gate to the outside world closed, hands folded neatly behind his back, standing at attention.

Your attention, if the pointed tips of his shoes were anything to go by; but that was a small betrayal no amount of discipline had ever quite cured him of.

Show your proper deference, Hayato, he would be told by his master; spoken these words more times than either of you could count, Should you want your insolent familiarity to reflect poorly upon your teachings, be my guest. However, let it be known that should it come so—

Well, Suo supposed that he was fulfilling the oath he took in serving your family with your request so boldly laid before him, though whether that aligned with what his master viewed as devotion remained to be seen. Whether he possessed extraordinary confidence or extraordinary stubbornness was a matter of spirited debate amongst the senior servants.

Though, would your father know he was standing here in your chamber with your robe hastily thrown over your undergarments, corset and petticoat nowhere to be seen, then he might get the caning that his master promised him.

"I'm merely confirming," he said at last, "that you are entirely aware of what it is you ask of me."

Still the same small and easy smile; in the corner of them, tucked behind the glint of tooth, a flare of something unknown, something heated and something that you knew not what to do with. Something sharp enough that instincts urged you to retreat despite having summoned him yourself—a warning; a chance and opportunity for you to dismiss him before whatever delicate line existed between mistress and servant became blurred.

Perhaps you ought to have taken it. He was trusted; your father did, your mother did, you did—servants, after all, were expected to preserve a family's honour more faithfully than their own. If anything were to be discovered, he would bear the blame first.

And yet, here he was.

Whatever form of deniability in being able to claim purity between you both existed, whatever fantasy befell you of his quick fingers and the reflexes he so humbly played down, only made your request all the more impossible to withdraw.

"Butler mine," an aggressiveness weighing heavy on your tongue at his refusal to comply immediately, "Is this your way of having me ask twice?"

Your fingers fisted the bedding underneath your skin; exposed and flaming. It was a small movement, pathetically so perhaps, yet Suo's eye caught it immediately. His attention had always possessed an almost infuriating and unfair precision whenever it concerned you: a dozen servants could bustle through a room unnoticed, your parents could host entire gatherings without earning more than a polite glance, and yet—the slightest shift of your expression, the smallest change within your breathing seemed to draw his notice as naturally as his own breathing.

"My apologies," —lies; not a single repentant bone in Suo Hayato's body; insincere. "Forgive the slight alteration, but I fear it would be irresponsible of me not to establish an objective first."

"… An objective."

"Indeed."

The rise of your eyebrows, a wave of your hand for him to continue. His gloved hand rose to rub his chin—an obvious show of contemplation from somebody who scarcely needed to think. You made a show of letting your contempt show: this mere theatre put on solely for your benefit, nay, his amusement.

His fingers lingered thoughtfully against his jaw, bright-eyed as he regarded you over the curve of his knuckles as though assessing a particularly fascinating puzzle, or perhaps assessing how much longer it would take before your patience finally snapped.

After all, Suo had always delighted in discovering which truths you would volunteer freely, and which required a little bit of his encouragement.

"There are numerous reasons," he began, "one might wish to acquire such a skill."

Your arms rose to fold themselves in front of your chest. "Oh?"

Encouraged by your impatience, a gloved finger extended, "Some desire confidence, and would rather not approach any such suitors entirely ignorant of what is expected for them."

A second, "Others hope to distinguish themselves. Regrettably, there are many gentlemen who fancy themselves accomplished because they have kissed half the daughters in the county, and some ladies would like to dazzle wherever they can."

Your eyebrows rose higher.

"And some—" a third to join the rest, and a wicked pause, "—simply become curious after enduring their mother's lamentation over courtships most unsuccessful for an entire evening—"

"Suo!"

"—who begin to wonder whether they are somehow lacking in experience."

The heat that had only just begun to recede, returned with a vengeance to your cheeks and neck, and his smile widened. An accusatory glance was levelled at your butler, "You were eavesdropping!"

"I was serving tea."

"You were eavesdropping whilst serving tea!"

His mouth formed a small mocking pout, "Would you rather your servant not remain informed?"

"You have become entirely too comfortable in this house."

"I should hope so." He inclined his head politely, still the same glint within his eye, "It has been my place of employment for nearly two decades."

"You know perfectly well that is not what I meant."

Your chamber suddenly felt far smaller than it had moments before. The curtains had been drawn against the night, shutting out the moon almost entirely, and only the fire, reduced now to glowing embers, and the handful of candles your maid had neglected to extinguish cast any light between you.

There was a terrible urge to wrap your robe tighter, to try to hide any kind of sliver of yourself from his prying eyes and his disrespectful tongue. It sought to undress you much as you sought to run. A click of his tongue; entirely too pleased with himself, "No, I believe I know precisely what you meant, Miss."

"I believe you are a menace!"

Would throwing a pillow at him be considered unbecoming of your station?

"Ah, you have called me worse; that is but a compliment from your mouth."

If not your pillow, definitely your shoes.

Your scowl deepened, and when his eyes tracked the draw of your eyebrows, you wondered whether he paid equal attention to everyone in the household, and with a bitter taste on your tongue, you rather hoped he did not.

The thought that his attentiveness might not belong exclusively to you settled unpleasantly somewhere beneath your ribs, lodged deep within your muscles.

Ridiculous—he was the apprentice head butler; observing people was half his profession. He anticipated requests before they were spoken, thought alongside any disputes to steer them off becoming arguments; of course, an estate this size demanded a man who noticed everything.

And still.

"You have yet to answer my question."

The housekeeper had once remarked that Suo's patience appeared inexhaustible where you were concerned. She had, inconveniently, also neglected to mention that yours seemed equally as tireless where he was.

"What question?"

"The objective, Miss."

A dramatic sigh left you, "Oh, I was rather hoping you had forgotten." —because to allow him to know the burning within your chest would be akin to giving in to him.

One thing that he was spectacularly good at was making you feel as though you had successfully distracted him from a topic only to find yourself under the pinning gaze of his scrutiny; only to realise that you had writhed underneath his watchful gaze.

"I rarely forget anything."

"No," you muttered. "You make a dreadful habit of remembering only the things that inconvenience me."

"Oh, I would not go that far," he was appeasing and damning both; you could throttle him, "I remember plenty that inconveniences others as well."

How was it that he could be so utterly obedient in every matter save those concerning you?

Had another family member requested assistance, he would already be halfway through carrying out their instructions. Yet you asked one impossibly embarrassing favour, and suddenly he questioned every detail down to the very minute dust particle.

"Suo Hayato—"

He interrupted you, somewhat quieter than before, though he had never raised his voice to begin with. "You summoned me after the household retired, Miss."

"Yes, I noticed."

"You dismissed your maid."

"I did."

His eyes searched your face. "You requested privacy, and so it would be irresponsible of me not to understand what service is truly being requested."

"I think that your Miss is very well allowed to give you orders and have you follow them without meddling in her business."

A pitiful attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

You knew that, were you to truly invoke your authority—were you to give him the order plainly with all the weight you could afford—you would not be made to ask twice as you were now. Suo would yield; he would not fight the give of his knees.

You knew it, and he knew that you knew it; and still, he remained where he had stood for several minutes, as though some invisible boundary restrained him from approaching farther without permission. A line drawn in the sand, his diligence in keeping to those confines until you moved them yourself.

Meanwhile, you sat upon the edge of your bed in little more than your hastily donned attire, feeling absurdly exposed, as though you had arranged yourself upon a silver platter and invited him to look.

There was something strangely intoxicating in that restraint. You possessed the power to compel him, to strip away the matter of uncertainty with a singular command, yet you could not bring yourself to wield it. An order would secure his obedience, but it would also rob you of the one thing you truly wished to know.

"Miss."

The single word settled between you with surprising weight; for the first time since entering your chamber, the teasing edge abandoned his voice. There was an accompanying darkening to his eye despite the smile he wore—very faint, almost deniable, as though something within your statement had unsettled something within him, annoyed him even, deeply so.

Suo Hayato had different smiles he donned like a mask—some he wore because he found something amusing; others he allowed to grace his mouth because courtesy demanded friendliness; and then there were those types of smiles he wore that had your neck tingle.

The brighter they appeared, the more they spoke of his frustration—a tell-tale of your butler's since childhood; they used to precede your scoldings back then. As adolescents, they had appeared whenever some young lord presumed too much of you at a ball and Suo, for reasons he never elaborated on, spent the remainder of the evening ever by your side.

"There is one thing you must understand," he said, at last, after looking you over. "I take this seriously. If you ask this of me, I shall oblige, though be warned that whatever chances you had hoped to elevate with the next gentleman will not grow."

His voice was soft; a tenor that knew how to crawl underneath your skin. His words carried a promise, though spoiled as you were, a promise was what you expected—he was yours, after all.

"If I teach you this, it will not be with the intention of preparing you for another man."

The area between your thighs warmed; heat pooling low.

"Well?"

He did not repeat himself, and when you did not object, he closed the distance between you. His footsteps were soundless, knowing exactly where to step to keep the wood from creaking lest he alert anybody outside of your room of motion within. It struck you that should anyone pass your chamber, they would hear nothing at all.

A glint within his eye had you wonder, absurdly, whether he considered denying you by calling somebody up here, to make you wait once more until you answered his question in earnest.

Suo had a way of smelling that was not entirely unconnected from the way he grew up. The familiar scent of his incense, heady and soothing, reached you—somewhere over the years the fragrance had ceased to belong to anything but him and had become inseparable from the man before you.

He stopped within an arm's reach, close enough that you needed only lift your chin to meet his gaze. His visible eye watched your face with an attentiveness, lingering over every feature as though committing it to memory anew. From your brow to the bridge of your nose, to your eyes, your flushed cheeks, your mouth—and there his gaze rested for a heartbeat.

Then, with visible effort, it climbed back to your eyes. Waiting, always waiting, undeniably so.

"Kiss me."

Softer than you thought they would come out of you; not an order nor a request, anymore. Just simply a truthful wish.

For the briefest moment you thought you saw something in him give, as though the composure he held up faltered. Not enough to be certain, of course—you could never be certain with Suo Hayato, but enough to make your heart stumble. It was there and gone again, swallowed behind years of discipline and the painful reminder of where he stood, and where you did.

"I'm not entirely sure I heard you." — there it was; the mask returning as naturally as breathing. Heat rushed to your cheeks once more, though no longer from embarrassment alone; your chest tightened with equal parts indignation and reluctant pleasure that he should, once again, prove so difficult.

He loved lying, he did, loved to etch it onto his tongue and present it to you like a truth. More than that, he delighted in watching you decide what to do with them—whether your pride would permit you to indulge him, whether you might abandon the careful manners drilled into you.

It was, you realised with irritation, the closest he ever allowed himself to honesty.

"A pity, then." — and there was your own vice; obstinacy in denying him. In making him retreat and think of how to best approach you whilst manoeuvring the rules bestowed upon him as well as the ones he placed on himself.

A corner of his mouth curved and his hands spread with feigned regret. "Ah, shame. I would have been most pleased to help you out, but alas. Should I be unable to hear my lady's request, there is precious little I can do to comply with it."

His eye sparkled with unmistakable mischief, "Now, if there is nothing else you require of me, I shall take my leave."

Before you could muster a retort, he turned—very unhurriedly.

There was an almost decided quality to the motion; one measured step after the other carried him towards the door and once more, his polished shoes avoided every treacherous wooden plank.

Even now, with his back to you, he remained every inch the impeccable butler, posture straight, hands folding neatly behind him once more as though this had been nothing more than an ordinary evening call.

Surely—surely he was not actually leaving. Affront and alarm both settled within your chest: surely he had not spent the better part of the night trying to dismantle your request to coax out confirmation and information out of you until you had finally surrendered the one thing he had sought from the very beginning, only to now retreat.

Oh, he would not.

The door shifted barely an inch before your patience snapped; the warmth that had softened you moments before disappearing beneath a rush of indignation.

"Fine," the word escaped in a huff, chased by a sharp exhale through your nose that did remarkably little to cool the heat spread over your chest.

His hand stilled, but his back clad in a black suit remained to be the only thing you saw, and you glared at the back of his head with enough force that any person ought to have felt it.

He was waiting, that wretch, and you folded your arms more tightly across yourself, drawing in one steadying breath after another—a disgrace, it was, to have you so fired up at the mere thought of him leaving you hanging, after all the effort it had taken!

Worse still, that he knew you well enough to recognise precisely how long your pride would hold before it gave way to irritation, and how that, in turn, had always been a faster road to where he wanted to have you.

"Suppose," you began, every syllable clipped, "I admit that I am tired of feeling inexperienced."

Not so much as a twitch of him.

"Suppose I admit that every dinner conversation has become an interrogation about marriage prospects, as your eavesdropping ears should know. And suppose I admit that hearing my mother wonder aloud whether I am too difficult to please becomes exhausting after the tenth time."

His hand remained upon the handle, though the leather of his glove creaked once beneath the tightening of his grip—the only outward betrayal that he had heard you.

"Well," you continued, stubborn and already on a tirade, "I have not received a manual at birth to know how to smile correctly, dance correctly, flirt correctly, kiss correctly, only to find some gentlemen dismiss me because I am not suitable enough."

He turned around at that, slowly, and there was shadow lining his face beneath his jaw and along the bridge of his nose despite the lingering notion of a smile.

It was an expression you knew well; and his eye searched yours for a long moment, "Any one of those men foolish enough to leave this house believing otherwise deserves the loss."

Your breath caught; at your own loss of words for the honesty he bestowed upon you—not in what he said, but who it came from. It was not that you thought yourself lacking per se, not that you thought yourself undeserving. Rather, it was the lingering resentment of years being spent being folded and pressured into drawers where no person should be made to fit.

Hearing Suo, childhood friend, servant, dismiss everyone of them outright so—it settled in the folds of your heart heavily.

You searched his face now, as though somewhere within it you might discover the jest. "Do you mean it?"

You had never sought reassurance from him before, so the almost timidness of your question felt strange upon your tongue. His brow lifted ever so slightly, face losing its cool with the surprise flickering across his features.

"Of course, you know me through and through," a little curve of the corner of his mouth, "and I always have maintained that honesty is an admirable quality."

A huff through your nose. "Not like you possess any."

"I possess enough for the both of us."

The fire crackled once more as it settled before surrendering to the whispers of the rain against the windows. When the clock marked a quarter hour to have passed, you laid there in this narrowed world where nothing else mattered.

Him and you, and you and him.

It had become strangely indulgent; an hour borrowed from the world, and for one singular, bewildering moment, you wondered what were to happen should you simply close the distance and steal the kiss for yourself.

If you were to be so insolent yourself—would morning arrive all the same? Expecting the two of you to return to the lives you had always lived?

"So," you asked quietly, "Is this sufficient certainty?"

There was something unbearably fond in the way he responded to you, "No."

"… No?"

"I believe you can do better."

A breath escaped you somewhere between disbelief and exasperation. Oh, you could not believe the audacity of that man; you ought to have him sprawled over your lap to teach him a few manners. "You know, I sincerely believed you would become less irritating as you grew older."

His expression did not so much as falter. "I had hoped the same of you."

"Pardon me! I was a delightful child."

"You bit me, Miss," he reminded you, one brow lifting, barely concealed amusement adorning his face.

"I maintain that you deserved it."

"I had merely informed your father that you had climbed onto the stable roof."

"Mere informing?" Your eyes widened in disbelief—granted, a bit more theatrical than you felt, but seeing the move of his cheeks as is his eyes crinkled with a smile had you lean into it, "You betrayed my confidence!"

The smile he had been trying so valiantly to maintain ended up betraying him as a soft huff of laughter escaped through his nose before he could suppress it; his head dipping ever so slightly as though the floor had suddenly become terribly interesting.

His posture did not change necessarily, still straight, yet the warmth in his eye undid all the discipline the rest of him tried so hard to preserve. "Were a threat to jump not part of your plan, I would not have."

Your arms drew tighter with a little huff, though it was difficult to sustain the expression when the memory refused to leave. The afternoon had been unbearably warm, the stable roof hot beneath your slippers, and below, one dutiful boy standing with his hands planted upon his hips to inform you that your father would hear of it. "But nothing happened! The rose bushes broke my fall."

You had hated him for all of three minutes until you landed, and then hated him for an entire fortnight when you got your privileges revoked.

"Yes. They broke because of your fall."

"Oh, honestly."

"They were excellent roses."

A reluctant laugh escaped you before you could stop it, bright enough to fill the room; warm cheeks that you tried to hide behind the back of your hands. "They survived, did they not?"

"They did."

And across from you, he answered in kind, even when the laughter dwindled naturally and neither of you hurried to fill the silence. Though years had passed since that afternoon, you realised that nothing had truly changed, that you still leapt before thinking.

"Suo," his name scarcely rose above a whisper, and his answer was immediate, "Yes, Miss?"

The title ought to have restored the distance between you, to remind you that it had always been a terrible idea and that you had ought to take one of the many outs Suo gave you. Instead, from his lips, it sounded almost reverent, and once more:

"Kiss me."

His gaze shifted down, not to the floor but to the curve of your mouth, and the movement lasted scarcely longer than it took for your heart to beat once. His jaw shifted, so slight you might not have noticed it had you not looked for it.

He wanted to, and it was almost embarrassing to you, the clarity with which you felt it emanate from him. So you swallowed, "I am asking you."

Suo's legs were long and he was with you within a couple steps; so close that you could distinguish the fine stitching at the cuff of his gloves and the familiar fragrance of his incense to surround you completely.

The rain faded into the background; no settling cracks of the fire to chime in; no danger of being found weighing on you; forgot everything except the impossible fact that he stood before you.

His gloved fingers hovered just short of your cheek, "May I?"

You had already been nodding before realising that he had asked a question, and the back of his knuckles descended to the curve of your cheek; such care in that motion, it could barely qualify as contact, and his thumb lingered on your mouth, hovering about yet so close that you could feel its heat.

Like a moth seeking the lamp, you found yourself leaning forward, almost without meaning to, and so did he. Not by much, barely a shift, but you could see the faint rise and fall of his chest, slower than your own though no steadier for it.

The almost imperceptible hesitation of his hand against your cheek as though he feared that if he held you any firmer, he might never be persuaded to let go. His breath ghosted over your mouth, warm, each exhale meeting your inhale until it became impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

And then, he stepped back.

"No."

You stared, breath caught, heart aching, "'No'?"

"Not tonight."

"What?" Your brain struggled to catch up; his scent still the only thing you smell. "Explain. Now."

"You asked me to teach you and I accepted," he said, fingers finding the cuff of one glove, smoothing an imaginary crease that did not exist, then lingered there for a moment beyond it, as though the mundane task offered somewhere safe to rest his attention at. Busying himself with the leather, he drew it taut across his wrist before releasing it again, and your eyes zeroed in on it.

Suo Hayato had never fidgeted a day in his life.

He let go as though he had burnt himself when he noticed your gaze. Instead, voice not betraying the unevenness in his heart, "And our first lesson has already been rather successful."

"You cannot be possibly serious. What lesson?"

"That of patience." — this blinding smile again. It arrived all at once, effortless and easy, and the thought of him wanting this perhaps every bit as fiercely as you wanted him settled low within your chest.

"Oh, you insufferable man."

His smile widened a fraction, pleased that you noticed, or mayhap relieved even.

"I bid you a good rest, Miss."

Suo Hayato's chambers were not very large, only as much as necessity demanded with a narrow bed, neatly made; a writing desk with the edges worn smooth; one window overlooking the gardens. It had never particularly seemed small before, but the walls pressed in around him now.

He closed the door behind himself with a care even stronger than he had used throughout the evening, waiting until the latch settled into place before allowing himself to move. Loosening the gloves from his hands, loosening the eyepatch he wore, he placed them upon the desk before leaning heavily against its edge. For several long moments, he simply stood there, and then he laughed, shoulders yielding.

Quietly and without humour.

"What a fool."

His thumb and forefinger came to rest against the bridge of his nose before his hand covered his eyes entirely. He could still hear you; your voice echoing in the confines of his mind, so unbearably stubborn and enticing.

He had heard your voice in every conceivable manner over the years, but the trust and the desire so clear in your voice was his undoing.

Kiss me.

He had imagined you saying these words in a hundred selfish moments over the years he had long ago taught himself to bury before they could become anything more than passing thoughts; and never—not once—had he expected to hear them spoken in that way.

Another laugh escaped him, softer than the first. He had come within inches; wanted to answer your call so bad, not with words. With every fibre of his being—but he also knew himself well enough to understand that one kiss would not have remained one kiss.

Not for him.

His hand slipped from his face at last, ignoring the strain in his pants begging to be freed.

A more sensible man would pour your tea tomorrow morning, address you as Miss and pretend none of this had ever happened, but unfortunately, he had never felt less sensible in his life.