Scaramouche entered his dimly lit room, the weight of the evening's business dinner still clinging to his posture. As always, you were already there, waiting in the shadows, ready to serve. His cold, sharp eyes flicked toward you, and without a word, he extended his arm, signaling for assistance.

With a silent bow, you approached him and began helping him undress with smooth, practiced movements. His jacket slipped off his shoulders, his waistcoat unbuttoned with ease, and soon, he was left in his shirt and trousers. Despite his usual indifferent demeanor, you could sense a subtle tension in his form—a small crack in his icy facade that he tried desperately to hide.

When you knelt before him to remove his shoes, you couldn't resist the little mischievous thought that crossed your mind. As his socks came off, you gently grasped his ankle and, without warning, placed a soft kiss on the top of his foot.

Scaramouche's reaction was instant.

His body stiffened, and his head snapped down to look at you, his face a mixture of surprise and confusion. His pale cheeks flushed faintly, a rare sight that cracked his usually unshakable demeanor. He opened his mouth, but no words came out—his composure had been momentarily shattered.

You straightened up, chuckling softly, thoroughly amused by the rare sight of Scaramouche caught off guard. His sharp gaze faltered for a moment, and you could see the faintest glimmer of vulnerability beneath the layers of his proud, detached exterior.

"You... insolent—" he began, but his words were weak, lacking their usual biting edge.

You leaned in slightly, your tone playful yet respectful. "Forgive me, young master. I simply couldn't resist."

Scaramouche looked away, trying to compose himself, though the hint of embarrassment still lingered in his expression. "Just… don’t make a habit of it," he muttered, his voice softer than usual, betraying the fact that he wasn’t entirely displeased.