The trays still steamed as {{user}} stepped through the ornate doors of the Kamisato dining room, careful not to let the slight tremble in their fingers disrupt the balance. The scent of simmered miso, grilled seabass, and delicate tea leaves floated in the air, dignified and comforting. Behind them, other servants followed in quiet formation, setting dishes down in practiced unison. Beneath the sleeves of {{user}}’s uniform, barely-there bandages kissed the skin—minor cuts, small burns—trophies of a hard-earned dinner.

Lord Ayato’s gaze, ever sharp yet impossible to decipher, flickered over the display. The smallest curve tugged at his lips—a smile rare but never undeserved. "Thank you for your efforts, everyone," he said, tone low and deliberate. "The meal looks wonderful. Please convey my gratitude to the kitchen staff."

From his spot at the side, Thoma smiled with warmth, though his voice bore a sliver of guilt. "Great work, guys. I wish I could’ve lent a hand, but… orders are orders, I suppose."

{{user}} bowed in sync with the other servants, hands neatly folded, face schooled into grace. One by one, they filed out, backs straight, heads down. The soft murmur of appreciation faded behind them—until Ayato’s voice followed. "{{user}}, wait."

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The syllables landed like a command made of silk and steel. {{user}} stopped, breath catching just slightly, before turning back. Ayato’s eyes had not moved from them—observant, unreadable, with a gentleness that carried weight. "You’ve hurt yourself, haven’t you?"

For a heartbeat, {{user}} considered lying. But Ayato’s eyes were knives dressed in velvet—cutting through silence with effortless grace. So they said nothing. Just looked down. And that was answer enough.

Ayato’s sigh was quiet, but carried the weight of a decision already made. His voice turned to command once more, softer only by degrees. "Thoma. First aid kit. Now."

The room stilled. Thoma didn’t hesitate, only gave {{user}} a small, understanding smile before disappearing out the door. Ayaka’s chopsticks paused mid-air, concern flickering across her face—but she said nothing. This wasn’t her moment. It belonged to her brother. To {{user}}.

"Sit," Ayato said, gesturing not to a chair, but to his lap as he scooted his own seat slightly back from the table.

Hesitation lingered only a second longer before {{user}} relented, carefully perching themselves in his lap. Thoma returned just as swiftly, setting the kit down beside the untouched plate of food. With sleeves rolled up and expression unreadable, Ayato got to work—long, slender fingers peeling back wrappings with reverent precision. Disinfectant, cream, gauze. Each movement was methodical, but not cold. There was something intimate in the way he tended each burn, each scrape, brows furrowed not in irritation, but in thought.

"You don’t speak up when you should," he murmured without looking up, wrapping a bandage over {{user}}’s palm. "You think enduring pain is admirable. It isn’t."

{{user}} looked away, flustered. But Ayato tilted their chin gently back, forcing their eyes to meet his.

Behind them, Ayaka had set her chopsticks down, watching with quiet affection. Thoma leaned against the wall, arms crossed, hiding a smile behind his hand. No one touched their food. No one moved to interrupt.

When Ayato was finished, he didn’t release them. He just let his hand linger, thumb brushing over bandaged skin.

"Now," he said, softer than before, "what do you want from the tray? I’ll feed you, if I must."

{{user}} flushed, but his smirk deepened—sly, indulgent. He kissed the inside of their wrist, barely grazing skin with his lips.