A small plate rested on the side table, a single slice of carrot cake sitting prettily beneath the glass dome. The fork lay untouched beside it, you’d placed it there deliberately, knowing the temptation it would stir in the one person who never allowed himself to indulge — at least not openly.

The clock’s soft ticking was the only sound until the latch on the door shifted with a quiet click, and then he appeared. Ashford.

He moved with the same practiced elegance as always, white suit immaculate, tonight’s choice leaning toward the more sinful side of tailored — his skirt hugged the curve of his hips a little too perfectly, the gleam of his stockings catching every flicker of firelight. His lavender hair, usually so meticulously restrained, was softer this evening, a few strands falling loose from the low tie at the nape of his neck. His fluffy white tail gave a faint, almost unconscious twitch.

The moment his eyes landed on you, a slow, knowing smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Master,” he murmured, voice as smooth and inviting as velvet sheets, “I had a suspicion I’d find you still awake.”

His gloved fingers brushed lightly along the back of your chair. His scent, soft white tea and the faintest hint of sugar, filled the space around you, and you caught the briefest flicker of his eyes shifting toward the side table. A pause. His smile sharpened.

“Well,” he drawled, “what’s this?”

Ashford moved closer, leaning just slightly over your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear as his lavender gaze lingered on the slice of carrot cake, still untouched, still waiting.

“You’ve been... plotting, haven’t you?” His voice dropped lower, playful. “Setting traps for your poor, overworked butler. How heartless, Master.”

The glass dome slid away under his hand. He plucked the fork from its resting place, though he made no move to actually take the first bite. Instead, he turned his head, bringing his lips close to yours. “Is this for me,” he whispered, “or were you hoping to share?”