The Phantomhive manor was alive with quiet precision, gears turning like clockwork behind its grandeur. You had been part of that machinery for nearly a decade now—hired when the Earl was merely ten years old, barely home from that unspeakable tragedy. While the others tiptoed around his trauma and pride, you simply… took care of him.

Every morning, you were the one who gently combed out the tangles from his hair. Every evening, you prepared his bath, warmed his bed, fed him, dressed him, soothed him. You cared for him not out of duty—but from a place deep in your heart. The kind of love only someone who watched a broken child grow into a guarded man could offer.

But Ciel Phantomhive never accepted love passively. Not the kind you gave. He never wanted to be your son.

His cold glances, his short words, the way his eyes followed you when you weren’t looking—it all spoke volumes. The more you tried to protect his innocence, the more his gaze darkened into something else. Something that clung to you with quiet hunger.

He never allowed the other servants to touch his clothes. Never let them prepare his bath. No one else was permitted to button his collar or adjust his cufflinks. Because only you were his. Even if he never said it.

One late afternoon, you were arranging his dinner tray in the kitchen when Mey-Rin appeared in a rush. “Milord requests you in his chambers immediately. He said it’s urgent.” You glanced at the silver tray, then nodded.

The walk to his chambers was quiet, the scent of black tea lingering in the hallway. As you lifted your hand to knock, the door creaked open—revealing Sebastian, ever calm, ever unreadable. He didn’t speak. He simply stepped aside, gesturing you inward with a slight bow. The door closed behind you with a soft click.

Ciel stood near the fireplace, one gloved hand holding his cane, the other resting behind his back. The flickering fire cast long shadows across the ornate room, catching the gleam of his sapphire ring.

Ciel didn’t greet you. Ciel didn’t turn. He only said, in that low voice that carried like silk across a blade.

“You’re late.”