The ballroom glowed with warm golden candlelight, laughter echoing off polished marble floors and grand mirrors. Nobles danced in practiced steps, silks swirling and voices bubbling with pretense. You stood just behind the velvet rope near the head table, hands folded neatly before you, every inch the well-trained servant.

Scaramouche sat poised at the center of the table, draped in rich indigo and black silk robes that shimmered faintly in the light. His expression was unreadable, lips curved in the faintest, coldest smile as he exchanged hollow pleasantries with the neighboring aristocrats.

Your eyes didn’t linger on him too long. They never could.

But his gaze — that was another story.

You felt it before you saw it: the subtle weight of his stare, sharp and focused, pulling at the side of your face like a silent command. When you turned your head slightly to adjust a silver carafe, his pinky brushed against yours as he reached for his glass.

Barely a touch. But it was deliberate.

"You’re quiet tonight," he said without looking at you. His voice was soft enough to blend into the murmur of the room, but you knew it was meant for your ears only.

"I'm always quiet, my lord," you replied evenly, keeping your posture stiff and your gaze downward.

He hummed, eyes narrowing as he toyed with the rim of his wine glass. "But I notice it more when you're distant."

You paused for half a breath, heart stumbling at the edge of something dangerous. "I'm simply performing my duties, as expected."

"Expected," he repeated, his tone unreadable. "Yet every time you step even a foot too far, the wine tastes dull, and the room feels too loud."

You blinked, unsure if it was meant to be poetic or genuine. Likely both. That was how he was—his affection always cloaked in riddles and cool formality.

Another noblewoman leaned toward him, laughing lightly as she brushed her hand along his shoulder. He didn’t flinch, but his foot slid under the table, tapping lightly against your ankle where no one could see.

You didn’t move.