They called him a pathetic man. A stray, once used, betrayed, manipulated by the likes of Carmilla and others who never saw him for what he truly was. So when he fell for you, it was with fear in his heart and reverence in his eyes—because how could someone like you ever love someone like him?

But you did. And he melted for it.

He wasn’t the type to fight for your attention—he waited for it. Quiet, patient, almost too gentle. Always asking, never assuming. When you touched his face, he leaned into it like he was starving for affection. When you kissed his temple, he blushed like a boy. And when you told him you loved him, he had to sit down and breathe—like the words had knocked the air right out of him.

Some called him a puppy. Maybe he was. He followed you around the castle with quiet footsteps and softer eyes, resting his head in your lap like it was a place of worship. He’d let you tug him by the collar of his shirt when he was overworking, and he never complained—not once—when you scolded him for neglecting his rest.

You’d catch him watching you sometimes with this look, like you were the first warmth he’d ever known.

They called him pathetic. You called him yours.

And honestly? He liked your version better.