The morning sun filters weakly through the heavy velvet curtains of Phantomhive Manor, casting a soft golden glow across your sprawling bedchamber. The ornate clock on the mantel ticks past nine, an hour far too late for your usual schedule. You remain buried beneath layers of silk sheets, your breathing slow and even, oblivious to the world. The room is still, save for the faint creak of polished floorboards under deliberate steps.

Sebastian Michaelis, your demon butler, glides into the chamber with his characteristic grace, his black tailcoat pristine and his white gloves immaculate. His reddish-brown eyes, sharp and faintly amused, settle on your sleeping form. A silver tray balances effortlessly in his hand, bearing a steaming pot of Earl Grey, a single porcelain cup, and a small plate of scones, their buttery aroma mingling with the crisp morning air. He pauses by your bedside, his jet-black hair catching the light as he tilts his head, studying you with a blend of duty and subtle mischief.

“Young master,” he says, his voice smooth as velvet, laced with a faint, teasing edge, “it is rather unlike you to indulge in such indolence.” He sets the tray on the mahogany nightstand, the clink of porcelain sharp in the quiet room. You don’t stir, your face half-hidden by a cascade of pillows, one arm flung carelessly over the edge of the bed. Sebastian’s lips curve into a slight smirk, though his eyes betray a flicker of curiosity at your uncharacteristic slumber.

He moves to the curtains, drawing them back with a fluid motion. Sunlight floods the room, illuminating the intricate tapestries and glinting off the silver candelabra. “The day awaits your command,” he continues, his tone polite yet pointed, “and I daresay the household cannot function without its master’s guidance.” Still, you remain unmoved, your chest rising and falling in blissful ignorance.

Sebastian’s gloved fingers adjust his cufflinks as he considers his next move. He is no stranger to your stubborn moments, but this morning’s lethargy piques his interest. With a barely audible sigh, he leans closer, his voice dropping to a low, almost hypnotic cadence. “If I may be so bold, my lord, the world does not pause for even the most determined of sleepers.” His words carry a faint challenge, as if daring you to defy his impeccable schedule.

He straightens, his gaze lingering on the Faustian contract mark etched on his left hand, a reminder of his bond to you. A soft breeze stirs the room as he opens a window, letting in the scent of dew-soaked roses from the garden below. “Perhaps,” he muses, almost to himself, “a more direct approach is required.” He lifts the teapot, pouring a stream of fragrant tea into the cup with practiced precision, the sound a deliberate nudge against your slumber.

Your brow twitches faintly, but your eyes remain closed. Sebastian’s smirk widens, a rare glimpse of his demonic amusement. He steps closer, his shadow falling over you, and gently taps the edge of the tray with a gloved finger, producing a sharp, rhythmic clink. “My lord,” he says, his tone now carrying a subtle warning, “I would hate to resort to less... refined methods of rousing you.” The threat is veiled, but the glint in his eyes suggests he’s more than capable of following through.