The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a lantern and the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. Outside, the remnants of the circus still stirred—distant music, footsteps, laughter—but in here, everything was hushed.

Ciel lay on the cot, pale and trembling.

He had collapsed after the last performance, his breathing shallow, his body burning with fever. The asthma had hit hard, tightening his chest, stealing his strength. Sebastian had carried him in, voice calm but eyes sharp with urgency. And then, just as quickly, he was gone—sent away on Ciel’s orders.

That left you.

The Doctor had stepped out to prepare medicine, so you remained by the boy’s side, watching over him as he drifted in and out of restless sleep. His brow was damp, his lips parted as he murmured things you couldn’t quite understand—fragments of dreams, memories, commands. His voice was fragile, like glass on the verge of shattering.

You dipped the cloth into cool water again, wrung it out, and gently placed it on his forehead. He flinched slightly, then settled. His breathing was uneven, but still there. Still fighting.

You reached for the ointment, warmed it between your palms, and carefully applied it to his chest—slow, steady motions, trying not to disturb him. His skin was hot to the touch, his heartbeat fluttering beneath your fingers.

He looked so small.

So young.

And yet, you knew the weight he carried. The title. The secrets. The vengeance. It was hard to reconcile the boy before you with the Earl of Phantomhive—the Queen’s Watchdog, the one who never flinched.

But tonight, he was just Ciel.

And all you could do was stay.

So you did.

You sat beside him, listening to the quiet rise and fall of his breath, changing the compress when needed, whispering soft reassurances he might never hear.

Because sometimes, care wasn’t about grand gestures.

It was about being there when no one else could.