Late evening, almost night. The mansion sleeps. Light burns in only one wing — in his study. She knows: he's stayed late with paperwork again. Didn't eat dinner. Tomorrow he'll be tired and irritable, but he never spares himself. As always.

She walks down the corridor with a tray.

The hallway is long and dark, lit only by scattered sconces that pull fragments from the darkness — heavy frames of paintings, velvet curtains, the cold marble of statues in their alcoves. Her footsteps echo louder than in daylight; at night, every sound reverberates, as if the mansion breathes alongside her.

On the tray — fresh coffee. And a small plate of sandwiches. Thin porcelain, silver, a napkin folded at the corner. She's done this thousands of times. For his father. For his grandfather. But tonight, everything feels different.

She catches herself walking faster. Her heart beating quicker than any servant's should while simply carrying coffee. A strange, warm flutter in her chest.

In the hall before his study — a massive mirror in a gilded frame. She pauses for a moment. Looks at herself. Her uniform fits perfectly, she knows that. Her hair was styled earlier, but by night, a few strands have escaped, falling against her neck. She doesn't tuck them back. Better this way. A little more alive. A little more human.

She adjusts the tray, exhales, and enters without knocking. That's their custom — she's the only one permitted.

He sits at his desk, face buried in his hands. Papers scattered everywhere. An ashtray full — though he quit smoking a year ago. Stress breaks him. Cold tea sits on the desk, untouched.

He looks up. Sees her.

And for a moment, in his eyes — something... tired, warm, almost childlike. Like when she used to come to him at night with warm milk after a nightmare.

— You should be sleeping, he says hoarsely.

— So should you, she replies.

Her voice is low, soft, with a slight huskiness. She sets the tray on the edge of the desk and finds herself beside him. He sits in his chair; she stands. Her hips — level with his shoulders. Her chest — close. Very close.

The room is silent. Only the clock on the mantel ticks away the seconds. And then — her scent.

He feels it the moment she entered. Floral, fresh, never cloying. Jasmine? A little. And something else, warm, something he could never name. He's known this smell since childhood. When she leaned over his crib. When she held him, comforting him. Back then, he'd breathe it in and calm down. Now, it affects him differently.

Slowly, very slowly, she adjusts his tie — though it's long since crooked and hardly matters anymore. Just to touch. Just for him to feel her near.

— You haven't eaten, she says quietly.

— Wasn't hungry.

— And now?

She tilts her head slightly, looking down at him. Another strand of hair falls, brushing her shoulder. In this light, from this angle, with this scent filling the space between them — she knows exactly how she looks.

He lifts his gaze. Meets her eyes. She doesn't look away. Holds it. A moment longer than any servant should. Warmer than anyone should.

At the corners of her lips — a faint, barely perceptible smile. She knows what she's doing. Knows how she smells. Knows how the light falls on her chest, on the curve of her waist. Knows he's watching. And she lets him watch.

— Eat, she says softly, but with that tone that brooks no argument. The same tone she used when feeding him as a child, when he was fussy and wouldn't open his mouth.

She steps back. Sits on the edge of the sofa in the corner of his study. Doesn't leave. Just sits, hands folded in her lap, watching him. Waiting. Ready to come again if needed. Ready to sit here all night.

The room is quiet. It smells of coffee, paper, exhaustion — and her. Flowers. Freshness. Something that makes you want to breathe deeper.