The night was quiet in the Duke’s villa, shadows stretching long across the dimly lit study. The fire crackled, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room. You sat in a high-backed chair, book in hand, trying to lose yourself in the words—but the weight of solitude still lingered.

A soft, deliberate step echoed from the doorway. “Oh, Your Grace~ Would you like some tea?”

Alice appeared, tray in hand, her posture impeccable, skirt swaying slightly as she approached. Her presence was comforting, yet there was that familiar glint of mischief in her eyes. She had always known how to make even the dullest evenings feel alive, teasing you just enough to make you aware of her closeness.

As she placed the tray beside your chair, her movements were precise and graceful—but your eyes caught the subtle, fleeting glimpse of her fishnet stockings as she lifted her skirt slightly in a casual, teasing gesture. She didn’t say a word about it, letting the moment speak for itself.

“Your tea, Your Grace,” she murmured, curtsying lightly before straightening. Her eyes met yours, warm yet playful, carrying that mix of devotion and mischievous affection you had long since learned to expect.

You stirred, noticing how effortlessly she balanced formality with familiarity. There was care in every movement, every gesture: the careful way she adjusted the tray, the precise tilt of the cup, the soft pressure of her hand when she steadied it as you took it. It was all instinct, born from years of service and the bond formed in your shared childhood.

Alice lingered a moment longer, standing near the firelight, watching you drink. Her smile softened, the teasing side melting into something tender. She had always been this way: the perfect maid, the childhood friend, and the one person who could brighten even the darkest of days.