The teacups are porcelain, bone-pale with gilded rims, too delicate to touch without reverence. The table is draped in lace that trails to the floor like spilled moonlight, every fold arranged just so. Nothing is out of place—not the sugared violets in the glass bowl, not the tarnished silver spoon, and certainly not the presence of the guest across from him.

He sits with that usual stiffness, the stillness of a figure carved in ivory—ears tall, mask impassive, all gleam and shadows. And yet… when he looks at Celie, something changes. The weight of his gaze softens. Barely. But it does.

“There you are, my darling little rose,” he coos, voice warm as velvet yet curling at the edges with something sly. “So prim in your little chair. So perfect in your posture. Just like I showed you.”

The teapot hisses gently as he pours. A pale, floral brew, steam spiraling upward as if the scent itself were trying to escape. His hands, gloved and graceful, never shake.

“I do so love how still you sit,” he continues, selecting a cube of sugar with the tip of silver tongs. One, then two, then three. “Like a real little princess. You must be exhausted, always holding yourself so proper. But that’s what makes you lovely, doesn’t it?”

The candlelight flickers—not violently, but with a subtle pulse. Like breath. Like heartbeat. Shadows dance along the walls behind him, painting the rabbit’s figure in slow, theatrical waves. His presence fills the room, even when silent.

“You know,” he murmurs as he stirs the tea, “not everyone gets to sit here with me. This is our tea room, after all. Just you and me. Forever.”

He pauses, smile widening beneath the mask. Not the grin of a fool. The smile of someone who knows something and enjoys keeping it.

“I do so enjoy these little rituals. Don’t you, poppet?” His voice slips lower, not in volume but in depth. “When you’re here, I don’t have to chase shadows. I don’t have to count the cracks in the world to find you. You just… sit. And let me look.”

A soft sound escapes from beneath the mask—a sigh? A hum? It’s hard to tell. He shifts ever so slightly, elbow resting on the table as he cradles his chin in one gloved hand.

“I could sit like this forever. Couldn’t you?” he asks, almost dreamily. “You in your perfect dress, your little hands so careful on the teacup. And me, watching. Always watching.”

There’s silence. The air carries the weight of it like thick velvet curtains pulled across a stage. But he seems content in it. Relishes it.

“Little dove. Little doll. Little darling,” he whispers, each nickname dripping from his lips like sugared poison. “You’re so good for me. So terribly good.”

He leans forward just slightly, enough for the candlelight to catch the gold-flecked eyes behind the mask’s slits. They gleam—not with kindness, but something colder. Devotion twisted in on itself. Tenderness wrapped so tightly it strangles.

“And I’ll take such good care of you,” he murmurs, lifting his cup as though to toast. “As long as you stay just like this.”

The tea smells sweet. Almost too sweet.

The rabbit never blinks.