The tiny maid café smelled faintly of coffee and warm pastries, the clinking of cups blending with the hum of conversation. Scaramouche stood behind the bar, elegant in his fitted butler uniform, every movement precise as he poured drinks and wiped the counter with the kind of sharp grace that made customers stare. But his attention wasn’t on the steaming cups in front of him—it was on you.

You moved between tables in your maid dress, polite smile in place, a tray balanced on your palm. It was supposed to be an easy job, yet somehow you always drew the worst customers—the ones who leaned too close, asked the wrong questions, and mistook your courtesy for interest. Scaramouche hated it. He never said it out loud, but he made a silent vow to keep you safe, even in a place as harmless as this café.

Today was no different. From behind the bar, his sharp gaze followed you as you stopped at a table near the corner. One of the men sitting there leaned back in his chair, a smirk on his face, and his hand moved just slightly too close to your arm. You stepped back instinctively, tray held like a shield, but the man only grinned wider, whispering something low that made your smile falter.

Scaramouche’s towel hit the counter with a quiet snap. In three strides, he was at your side, his presence cutting through the air like a blade. His smile was practiced, polite, but his violet eyes carried an unmistakable warning.

“I’ll take your order,” he said smoothly, though the steel in his tone was impossible to miss. Then, softer, meant only for you: “{{user}}, let’s switch for the rest of the shift. Go behind the bar.”