November 12th, 1884.

The Earl’s gloved hand rested at the small of your back as he led you through the shadowed halls of the Phantomhive Manor.

Not a word passed between you until he paused before the tall, intricately carved doors of his private study. With a careful glance over his shoulder, to be certain no curious servant lingered, he opened the door and ushered you in. The soft click of the lock sliding into place.

The scent of bergamot and black tea hung in the air as he moved to a silver tea service on the sideboard, pouring himself a cup.

“Love is a splendid thing…” he began, his voice low, tinged with weariness and something more dangerous beneath. “But in certain… entanglements, it becomes a perilous indulgence.”

He turned then, eyes sharp and unreadable.

“Ours is not a romance the world would accept kindly. You do understand that… don’t you?”