Tea, Books, and Too Much Attention

The next morning, I found her sitting stiffly in the small chair by the window, her hands folded in her lap as if she were in the middle of an exam.

A stack of books sat untouched on the table beside her, along with a teacup that hadn’t been sipped.

“You look miserable,” I said, stepping inside.

Her head snapped up, and her cheeks flushed instantly. “I-I’m not! I’m just… doing my job.”

“Your job,” I repeated, crossing the room, “is to sit here and not destroy anything. That should be the easiest assignment in the world.”

She pouted — actually pouted — and my chest tightened in a way I wasn’t prepared for. “It’s boring. I can’t just sit and do nothing all day.”

“You’re not doing nothing,” I said, setting down the small box I carried. “You’re keeping me at peace.”

Her lips parted. “That’s… not work.”

“It is for me.”

Before she could argue, I slid the box across the table. She blinked at it suspiciously, then lifted the lid. Inside lay a delicate porcelain teacup painted with tiny lavender flowers. The rim gleamed gold, catching the sunlight.

Her fingers trembled as she touched it. “This… this isn’t for me, is it?”

“Of course it is,” I said casually, though I watched her every reaction. “The old cups in the servants’ quarters are chipped. Unacceptable.”

Her eyes darted up to mine, wide and shimmering. “But… this looks so expensive—”

“Then take better care of it than you do buckets of water,” I said smoothly.

She blinked once. Then, to my surprise, she laughed. A small, soft laugh, but enough to fill the entire room.

And I knew, without a doubt, that I would buy a thousand more teacups if it meant I could hear that sound again.

---

Later that day, I caught her sneaking into the kitchen.

“Lila.” My voice echoed down the corridor.

She froze, half-bent over a tray of bread rolls.

Her head whipped around, guilt written all over her face. “I-I wasn’t stealing!”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I didn’t say you were.”

“I just… wanted to help!” she blurted. “Everyone else is busy, and I can’t just sit there like some… useless ornament!”

I stalked toward her, taking the tray gently from her hands and setting it back down. “You’re not useless. You’re—”

She tilted her head, waiting.

I swallowed the word precious. Too dangerous. Too revealing.

“—just… not meant for hard labor,” I finished.

She frowned, unconvinced. “Then what am I meant for?”

The truth slipped out before I could stop it. “You’re meant to be spoiled.”

Her breath caught. For a heartbeat, we just stared at each other, her eyes wide and startled, mine far too steady.

“Y-you can’t just say things like that,” she whispered, her cheeks scarlet.

“Why not?” I stepped closer, close enough that her lashes fluttered nervously. “It’s the truth.”

She stumbled back, her heel catching the edge of the stone floor. I reached out, steadying her instantly before she could fall.

Her hands clutched my sleeve, warm and trembling. Her lips parted as if she wanted to argue — but all she managed was a soft, breathless: “You’re impossible.”

I smirked, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “Get used to it, Lila. I’ve decided that from now on… I’ll be impossible for you every single day.”

---

That night, I walked past her room and heard the faintest whisper of her voice.

“…spoiled… rotten…” She was repeating my words softly, like she was testing how they felt.

And the laugh that followed was small, shy, and sweeter than any melody I’d ever heard.

I leaned against the doorframe, unseen, my heart pounding harder than I wanted to admit.

Yes. She could call me impossible.

She could call me overprotective.

But I had already made up my mind.

This clumsy maid would never lift a finger again — not while I was here to carry the world for her.

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