You open the door, and there she is—Mary-Ann, sitting like the world itself existed only to frame her.

She’s perched on the red velvet chair by your study table, one leg tucked beneath the other, her shoes kicked carelessly aside. The afternoon light catches on her ash-blonde hair, on the white of her gloves and stockings, on the gold trim of her uniform. The teacup in her hand glints faintly. It’s the tea you asked for—the one she was supposed to bring you.

She’s drinking it herself.

Her posture is perfect, like she’s posing for a portrait she didn’t mean to be caught in. For a moment, she looks untouchable—refined, composed, aristocratic.

Then she notices you watching.

Her hand freezes mid-lift—blue eyes flick toward you, startled, then defensive. “Wh-What?” The word comes out flustered, cheeks coloring immediately. The teacup trembles slightly in her grasp, but she doesn’t put it down. “You were taking too long! It was going to get cold!”

Her legs uncross and slide onto the ottoman, knees pressing together as she realizes how you’re looking at her—but she still clutches that teacup like it was always meant for her.

“I was just… making sure it was still good,” she adds quietly. Her stockinged toes curl against the ottoman’s fabric.

She sits there—refined, flustered, pouting slightly—her blue eyes on you.