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Cale Henituse had never been fond of red. The colour followed him like a curse — red as the blood he had spilled, red as the burdens placed upon his shoulders, red as the embers that threatened to consume him.
Yet, as he sat in his study, swirls of deep red wine in his glass reflecting the flickering candlelight, he was reminded that red was also the colour of warmth. The warmth of the hearth, the warmth of quiet companionship, the warmth of something he never sought but had somehow found — affection.
The scent of something sweet drifted through the corridors, unsettling him. Cale placed his glass down with a sigh. This was supposed to be an uneventful evening, but the Henituse estate never allowed him peace.
“...Young Master.”
Ron Molan’s voice was like a whisper, cutting through the silence of the study. The old butler stood at the door, his ever-present smile as unreadable as ever.
“What is it?” Cale asked, already tired of whatever scheme was unfolding. He had seen Ron smile before slicing an enemy’s throat. A harmless occasion such as this should not warrant such an expression.
Ron stepped forward, carrying a tray with a simple porcelain cup. “A special blend of tea, Young Master. Beacrox has been preparing something as well.”
Cale frowned. “Why?”
Ron chuckled, his amusement subtle but unmistakable. “Do I need a reason to prepare tea for you?”
Yes, he did. Ron always had a reason.
Cale took the cup but didn’t drink. The tea’s aroma curled into the air, rich and floral, tinged with something heavier — faintly sweet, like berries ripened under the summer sun. A careful choice. Deliberate.
Before he could question it further, the door opened again, and Beacrox entered. Unlike Ron, Beacrox did not smile. He carried a small wooden box, the grain polished to a rich, dark sheen. His chef’s uniform was pristine, but Cale noticed the faint dusting of cocoa powder at his cuffs, the tell-tale sign of recent effort.
“You’re both acting strange,” Cale muttered, setting the teacup aside. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what this was about.
Beacrox placed the wooden box in front of him. “Take it.”
Cale didn’t move. “Why?”
The chef gave him a deadpan stare. “Because I made it.”
Ron poured himself a cup of tea and sat down across from Cale. “Today is a special occasion, Young Master.”
The red head’s gaze shifted between the two of them. “What occasion?”
Ron’s smile deepened. “Valentine’s Day.”
Cale blinked. A tradition he had only heard of in passing, a day when lovers exchanged gifts, when sweets were given as tokens of affection. A human custom that had never been of any relevance to him.
He exhaled sharply. “And what does that have to do with me?”
Beacrox crossed his arms. “It is a day to show appreciation.”
The younger scoffed. “Since when do you two care about human traditions?”
Ron took a slow sip of tea. “Since we chose to, Young Master.”
Something in his tone made Cale pause. Ron, the ever-watchful butler, and Beacrox, the sharp-tempered perfectionist, were not the type to waste effort on sentimentality. If they were doing this, it was not out of obligation. It was a choice.
Cale hesitated, then pulled the ribbon off the box and lifted the lid. Inside, a neat row of chocolates lay nestled in dark velvet. Each piece was crafted with meticulous care, the sheen of tempered chocolate catching the candlelight like polished onyx. A hint of deep red gleamed in the centre of some — wine-infused truffles, perhaps, or something flavoured with berries.
Red, again.
His fingers hovered over them. “...You made these?”
Beacrox gave a curt nod. “You eat garbage half the time. It was necessary.”
Cale huffed a laugh, dry and amused. “Is this your way of telling me my taste is bad?”
Beacrox didn’t deny it.
Ron set his cup down with a soft clink. “It is our way of telling you that you are valued, Young Master.”
Cale stilled.
He had heard many things in his life. Praise, flattery, fear, resentment. But ‘valued’ was not a word often directed at him. Not as Cale Henituse, the slacker noble, nor as Kim Rok Soo, the lone survivor.
His gaze dropped to the chocolates again. Something unspoken lingered in the air, thick as the scent of warm tea and tempered cocoa.
Ron was watching him, waiting. Beacrox stood stiffly, arms crossed, his presence a silent demand.
With an exhale, Cale picked up one of the chocolates and took a bite. The bitterness of the dark chocolate melted first, rich and grounding. Then, the warmth of something sweeter spread across his tongue — subtle, not overpowering, but undeniably there.
It tasted like effort. Like care. Like something that was his.
Cale swallowed, then reached for his tea. “Not bad.”
Beacrox rolled his eyes but said nothing.
Ron, ever composed, simply refilled Cale’s cup. “We will consider that a compliment.”
The fire crackled in the hearth. The tea was warm in his hands. The chocolates, carefully made, sat before him, waiting to be eaten.
Red had always been a burdensome colour to Cale. Blood. Fire. The weight of responsibility.
But tonight, in the quiet company of two people who had chosen to stand by him, it was something else entirely.
Crimson threads, woven not by fate, but by choice. And for the first time in a long while, Cale did not mind it at all.