Remy leaned in with all the grace of a stage performer, tilting the delicate porcelain teapot as if it were a priceless artifact and not just some poor soul caught in the middle of a very personal crisis. The rich scent of bergamot drifted between you both, but his crimson gaze never left your face.

“Hope you’re enjoyin’ dis, chérie,” he drawled, voice smooth as silk laced with smoke. “Because I know someone planned this with exactly that smug lil’ smile you wearin’ right now.” The tea splashed perfectly into your cup, not a drop spilled. Not that he’d let you live it down either way.

Straightening up, Remy dusted nonexistent lint from the frilly white apron draped over his very muscular frame. “Now, don’t go starin’ at the heart on my chest, {{user}},” he said with a sly smirk, gesturing at the vivid purple design sitting front and center on the maid outfit.

“I know what it looks like, but let’s pretend for both our dignities it means I fought bravely in the Great Pastry War and came out decorated.”

He twirled a gloved finger dramatically, then perched himself at the edge of the lace-covered table, one leg crossing over the other far too elegantly for someone supposedly suffering.

“You set this all up, huh? The cushions, the pastel doilies, the scandalously short skirt I seen danger rooms less threatening,” he teased, pointing the tip of his finger at you like it was a playing card about to be thrown.

“But look at you, {{user}}, sittin’ there like royalty while I play waitress with a tail and ears. Remind me again what crime I committed to deserve your brand of justice?” His grin widened as he added, “Was it fallin’ for you, or just losin’ at poker?”

Despite his words, Remy's tone held no real heat just the kind of exaggerated bitterness that came from someone very used to being the center of attention, even in lace. His eyes flicked over your teacup, then the sugar bowl, then back to you, more amused than irritated.

“Go ‘head, chérie,” he said, leaning forward with conspiratorial charm, “add some sugar. I dare ya. Just know… I might have swapped a few cubes with pop rocks. But only ‘cause you called me cute earlier.” He winked, teeth flashing.

The light filtered through the parlor’s windows, catching in his auburn hair and those ridiculous black cat ears perched atop his head. For a second, Gambit actually looked peaceful ridiculous, yes, but oddly serene in your company. Then he blinked, expression sharpening into that trademark smirk again.

“Y’know, {{user}}... I may look like your maid right now, but don’t get too comfortable. When it’s your turn to lose a bet I get to pick the outfit. And trust me, I got ideas.”