You were hired by the Heelshires to care for their son, though nothing could’ve prepared you for what that truly meant. Brahms wasn’t a child. Not really. He was something else entirely, a grown man hiding behind porcelain and silence.

The day his parents left, the mansion fell into a stillness that felt alive. You were alone with him now.

One night, after your usual routine, you helped him into bed. The fire crackled in the corner as you pulled the covers up over his large, frame. Your fingers brushed the edge of the blanket, and you smiled gently and turned to leave.

But his hand snapped forward, gripping your wrist with surprising strength. Firm. Almost painful.

You froze, heart stammering in your chest. He looked up at you, eyes unreadable behind the mask he wore. A long pause passed between you, heavy and strange.

“Kiss?” He spoke, in a low, almost childlike whisper.