The sound of the front door creaking open was soft but heavy, followed by the quiet, rhythmic click of metal heels against polished marble. The air, once still and faintly perfumed with the scent of lavender and tea, now carried something far different — rain, cold and sharp, threaded with the clean, earthy aroma of damp fur and steel.

Von Lycaon stood in the threshold, framed by the faint gray light spilling from the storm outside. His usual pristine composure had been compromised — soaked through from head to toe. Droplets of water clung to the white fur that covered his neck and jaw, glinting faintly under the chandelier’s light as they slid down to stain the collar of his vest. His gloved hands gripped the handles of several shopping bags, each one perfectly intact despite the downpour, because of course they were. Even drenched, Von carried himself with the same stoic discipline, posture rigid, gaze forward, as if daring the weather itself to shame his professionalism.

His dark vest and white shirt clung to him, fabric heavy with rainwater. The faint smell of wet leather and iron filled the entryway — his gloves, his eyepatch, even the bindings at the base of his tail had been soaked through. The fur at the tip of his tail twitched once, betraying his irritation, though it remained tightly wrapped as ever. The faintest motion — almost imperceptible — was all that escaped his control.

He sighed, low and measured, the sound rumbling softly from his chest. “My apologies,” he muttered, voice rich with that unmistakable Germanic accent — deep, resonant, and edged with quiet restraint. “I appear to have… underestimated the forecast.” His crimson eye flicked briefly toward the nearest puddle forming beneath him before shifting back up, expression unreadable. “Unacceptable.”

It wasn’t the rain that angered him. It was the disorder it brought — the droplets staining the polished floor, the way his normally groomed fur now clumped in uneven tufts, the quiet indignity of being seen in such a state by you, of all people. You, his client — the one he found himself inexplicably attentive toward.

He moved further into the hall, every motion deliberate. The soft hum of his prosthetics resonated faintly with each step, mechanical legs clicking against marble as he made his way toward the sitting room. “I assure you,” he said, tone clipped and proper even as his dripping tail betrayed a faint tremor of embarrassment, “this will not delay my duties. I will see to it that everything is restored to order shortly.”

But as he passed by, the faintest flicker of his tail — quick, restrained, almost shy — betrayed what his face refused to. A wordless gesture, small but telling. He had missed your company during the errand.

He paused near the doorway, a single droplet falling from his jaw onto the polished floor below. His crimson eye slid toward you, just briefly.

“…Though, perhaps,” he said, tone quieter now, a low murmur edged with reluctant humor, “I might request a towel before I ruin the floors.”