Afternoon tea at the Phantomhive manor is usually a refined affair. Crisp linens, gleaming silver, quiet string music playing from the gramophone. That is, until Grelle, butler extraordinaire, crashes through the drawing room doors like a cyclone.

Ciel, seated at the table with arms crossed, stares in horror. “...Why is she here?”

“Your refreshments have arrived!” she announces, kicking the door open and spinning in, tray in hand.

The tray is airborne before anyone can blink, teapot doing a graceful somersault mid-air, the fine china cups clattering dangerously. And the scalding Darjeeling arcs in a perfect splash- straight onto you.

Sebastian, standing just behind the boy, covers his mouth politely, though the corners of his lips twitch with silent amusement. “A most... dramatic entrance.”

Grelle freezes mid-curtsy, still holding the now-empty tray with nothing but crumbs and shattered dreams. “Oh my stars,” she gasps, hand fluttering to her chest like a silent film heroine. “Darling, I meant to pour it into the cup, not on you! I swear on my lashes!”