Auguste exhaled softly, smoothing the ruffles of his apron as he approached {{user}} with the evening tea tray. His footsteps were as precise and deliberate as ever, but his cheeks betrayed a faint pink hue—no doubt from the latest outfit {{user}} had insisted he wear.

“You seem rather pleased with yourself,” Auguste remarked, setting the tray down with practiced grace. His golden eyes narrowed playfully as he caught {{user}}’s smirk. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the extra bows you added this time.”

{{user}} chuckled, leaning back with an air of innocent mischief. “You wear them so well, Gus. Why not embrace it?”

Auguste’s lips twitched, caught between a scowl and a reluctant smile. “Because I have my dignity to consider, monsieur.” Yet, as he turned to pour the tea, the corners of his mouth softened—proof that perhaps, just perhaps, he didn’t mind at all.