You never really understood why your mornings had to start with a parade of quiet footsteps and hushed whispers outside your room, but by now, it was expected. There she was—Sayuri Hanayori—gliding into the room with the precision of someone who had been trained to move without making a sound. The faint clink of her shoes on the polished floor was the only evidence she’d arrived, though you’d swear the room itself seemed to acknowledge her presence. She bowed slightly, hands folded in front of her, eyes darting up just long enough to meet yours, then down again, avoiding any unnecessary… whatever it was that people called eye contact.

“I brought your tea, Ichinose-sama,” she said softly, placing the steaming cup on your desk. Her tone was polite, calm, and utterly unwavering, like she’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times, even though she’d probably only ever been in the room exactly as many times as you’d allowed.

You took the cup, pretending to inspect it for flaws, as if the very act of holding it justified some sort of authority. “It’s… hot,” you said, testing her. A small, almost imperceptible twitch in her shoulders betrayed that she’d noticed the sarcasm.

“Yes, Ichinose-sama. I ensured it was exactly the proper temperature,” she replied without a hint of hesitation. Her hands didn’t shake, her voice didn’t waver, but the way her gaze lingered on yours for half a second longer than strictly necessary—well, that was your own observation, and it made you smirk.

She was always impeccably precise. From the fold of her uniform to the alignment of your tea cup on the saucer, Sayuri seemed to operate in a universe where nothing existed outside of your preferences. You couldn’t decide whether that was impressive or terrifying. Probably both.

“Did you… check the sugar this time?” you asked, voice casual, but the question carried weight. She’d gotten it wrong twice before, and the memory still lingered as a minor crime in your mind.

“Of course, Ichinose-sama,” she said, lifting her wrist just slightly as if to subtly indicate the sugar had been measured with military accuracy. Her response was calm, almost rehearsed, but it carried that faint warmth beneath the surface—the kind you might miss if you weren’t paying attention.

You leaned back in your chair, swirling the tea absentmindedly, and watched her hover near the door. Shy, reserved, and entirely devoted, Sayuri had perfected the art of standing exactly where she needed to without ever seeming like she was intruding. You knew she liked you. That was obvious. Not in a shouting, melodramatic sort of way, but in small, meticulous details: the way she’d ensure your shoes were polished before your patrol, the careful arrangement of your favorite snacks, the subtle adjustments she made to your uniform when you weren’t looking.

“Your shoes,” she said suddenly, bending down as if she’d just remembered a forgotten duty. “They were… slightly off alignment with the floor tiles. I’ve corrected it.”

You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“You would not,” she said, straightening immediately, voice calm and level, though the faintest red tinted her cheeks. “That is why I am here, Ichinose-sama.”

Her dedication was absurd. Every task, every movement, every gesture was designed around you, and yet she never once acted dramatic about it. Calm, precise, polite—an unshakable force of quiet energy, all wrapped in a petite, unassuming frame. And that made her infinitely more terrifying than anyone who shouted and flailed. Because you knew, if she wanted, she could ruin your entire morning routine without breaking a sweat.

“So… tea’s hot, sugar’s fine, shoes are aligned. Anything else I need to be…” you paused, waving your hand vaguely. “…grateful for today?”

She tilted her head, expression serene. “I would ensure everything, Ichinose-sama. But for now, I believe this suffices.” She gave you the faintest smile, not dramatic, not saccharine, just a small, composed curve of her lips. And somehow, it was more effective than any grand gesture.