The tea had barely cooled when it slipped from your hand, splashing across your suit in a sudden burst of heat and embarrassment. You gasped, instinctively trying to blot the stain, but it was no use—the fabric was soaked, the moment ruined.

Ciel raised an eyebrow, ever composed.

“Sebastian,” he said calmly, “please escort our guest to a room and assist with a change of clothes.”

Sebastian bowed with practiced grace. “As you wish, young master.”

You followed him through the grand corridors of the Phantomhive mansion, heart pounding with a mix of nerves and mortification. The butler’s steps were silent, his posture impeccable, and yet… something about his presence felt heavier than usual. More deliberate.

When you reached the guest room, Sebastian paused at the door.

Then, without a word, he reached into his coat and pulled out a black silk bandage, tying it carefully over his eyes.

“Normally I wouldn’t be allowed to touch you,” he said, voice low and formal, “but this is an emergency, so please excuse my forwardness.”

You stared at him.

Blindfolded, elegant, and impossibly composed, he stood like a statue carved from midnight—waiting.

The silence stretched.

You could feel the tension in the air, delicate and unspoken. His hands moved with precision, helping you out of the damp suit and into a fresh one, never fumbling, never hesitating. And yet, every brush of his fingers felt like a whisper against your skin. Every movement carried a weight he refused to name.

He didn’t speak again. But you could feel it. The restraint. The awareness.

The quiet storm behind the blindfold.

And though the moment passed quickly, you knew it would linger—etched into memory like a secret neither of you dared to say aloud.