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Life as a noblewoman was utterly draining. You weren't tired from lack of sleep, but from the constant smiling required at tea parties with girls your age—girls sweet on the outside, but vicious in their subtle cruelty. Today was no different.
“Lady (First Name), is it true your dress was handmade? Oh, how… brave, isn’t it?” said a brunette with a smile that barely hid her contempt, making the other girls titter.
You raised your teacup, gazing at her over the rim before setting it down gracefully. “At least I don’t need three maids to hide my true figure, Miss.”
“You—!” Her face flushed with rage. She stood abruptly, her chair screeching across the marble floor. “You insolent—how dare you speak like that in my home!”
You offered her a calm smile. “I’m merely mirroring your tone. So refined, wouldn’t you say?”
Then a porcelain teacup flew through the air, striking your chest. The still-warm tea soaked your elegant but simple dress. You didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. You only looked at her—looked with a gaze so knowing, so composed … like you were tucking away that moment for later. Like a promise.
You returned to your manor in silence. The maids averted their eyes when they saw your stained dress, but dared not speak. You even refused a bath that night, letting the dried tea cling to your skin like the scar from an invisible war.
That night, you closed your eyes.
You woke the next morning to silence. Not your usual room. The ceiling was higher, the curtains a deep wine red rather than beige. The bed far too soft. The air smelled of black roses and cinnamon. Odd. But strangely, you didn’t panic. Perhaps your mother had moved you away from scandal again—she’d done it before.
You rose, finding a velvet robe already prepared. As you opened the door, a man stood waiting outside. His black hair shimmered like ink, and his face was far too handsome to be a servant.
“Who… are you?”
“Sebastian Michaelis. Your personal butler, starting today.”
“Hired by?”
“Your family, my lady.”
Of course.
In afternoon you sat on your private balcony, letting the spring wind brush your skin. White roses bloomed in the garden below. The sky was too blue. The air too fragrant. But it felt… peaceful. As if the world finally decided to be kind to you, just for a moment.
“Lady (First Name),” that gentle voice came from behind.
Sebastian approached in silence, holding a silver tray with a teacup and delicate petit fours—each a miniature work of art.
“I didn’t ask for tea…” you murmured.
“I knew you’d forget. As usual,” he replied softly.
You chuckled, a little startled. “You talk as though you’ve known me for ages.”
“Perhaps I have,” he said, placing the tray before you. “Or perhaps I simply read you well.”
You studied him. His face looked carved from marble. His eyes too intense, too focused to be merely a butler. But your body was too at ease to question it further. Maybe it was the roses. Or the calm in his voice.
“You’re… different,” you whispered. “From other servants.”
He gave a slight bow. “I am honored to be seen that way.”
You sipped the tea. Then spoke, softer still. “I’m not used to being treated like this.”
“Like what, my lady?”
“Like I matter.”
Silence. Even the wind paused, as if listening.
Sebastian knelt beside you, one hand resting lightly on your chair. His face was just inches from yours.
“There is much about you worth treasuring. Your wit. Your resolve. Your elegance… not forged by the schools of debutantes, but by pain.”
You held your breath. His crimson eyes looked into yours as if the world consisted of nothing but you.
“Is this part of your job?” you asked. “To make your mistress feel better about herself?”
“No,” he whispered. “This… is of my own volition.”
Before you could speak, he leaned closer. His kiss wasn’t rushed—but reverent. A silent "may I?" asked not with words, but with eyes.
When his lips finally touched yours, the world melted away. The tea cooled. Your heartbeat slowed. The kiss was soft. But deep. Not desire. Something far more terrifying—tenderness. When he pulled away, you opened your eyes.
The sky behind him hadn’t changed. No clouds. No birds. Just a frozen canvas of blue. The roses in the garden were still. Unmoving. No wind.
Your heart thudded once, slow, loud. “You said I always forget tea,” you whispered. “But I never told you that.”
He didn’t answer. Just smiled. Slowly. Fondly.
Night fell. The manor was hushed. Candles along the hall lit themselves without you noticing who lit them. Your footsteps echoed gently on the marble floor. You should have been asleep. But something inside you refused.
You needed to see him again.
As if guided by a quiet inner voice, you found yourself in the library—a room far grander than anything in your real home. Dark wood shelves. Books in foreign languages. A fireplace flickering calmly in the center.
And there he was.
Sebastian. Reading. His long fingers trailing from line to line. “You’re not asleep yet, Lady (First Name),” he said, not even glancing up.
“I can’t sleep,” you admitted. “This place… it’s too quiet.”
He closed the book and rose. “Shall I make you tea?”
You shook your head. “No. Just… stay.”
He moved to sit beside you, not across, but turned entirely toward you. Like someone who *genuinely* wanted to listen.
“I’m tired of the world,” you said. “Of the masks. The parties. The stupid games. Even my mother… she loves our status more than she loves me.”
He said nothing. But his gaze held you like a quiet embrace.
“Why are you so calm?” you asked.
“Because I do not belong to this world, my lady. I belong only to you.”
You reached for his hand. Slowly.
“Are you real?”
He squeezed your hand—warm. Too warm. “Does it matter?”
You sighed. “I don’t know.”
Sebastian stood, offering his hand. “Then let me show you a place where nothing else matters.”
You rose. For once, allowing someone to lead you. He brought you to the upper balcony, where stars hung low and the night air wrapped around you like silk.
“I want to run away from everything,” you whispered.
“Then do,” he murmured behind you. “Let me be your guardian. Let me shape this world for you. No mockery. No rules.”
“Why are you doing this?” you asked, voice cracking.
“Because you called to me,” he whispered. “And because… I hate seeing you cry alone.”
“I’m dreaming,” you murmured. “Aren’t I?”
“You are lucid,” he confirmed. “Which means… this dream is yours.”
“You’re manipulating me,” you whispered. “You’re giving me comfort, love, everything I ever wanted—but it’s not real.”
His fingers trailed up your arm, tender. Reverent.
“Mere dreams do not hold this much weight,” he said. “Look at me. What you feel now—your heartbeat, the warmth in your cheeks, the ache in your chest—that’s real. More real than their parties. More real than your mother’s scorn. More real than crying in that cold room.”
He lifted your hand. Kissed its back, long and tender. “Here… you don’t have to pretend to be strong. You don’t have to dress to impress. You can be yourself—and still be loved.”
“I can give you this every night,” he whispered. “All you have to do… is say the word.”
You looked into his eyes. Inside them: emptiness and promise.
“Do you want me to stay?” you whispered.
“More than anything,” he replied. “Give me your everything—your heart, your sleep, your dreams… your soul.”
“Then I don’t want to wake up,” you said softly.
“Then let me make you forget the morning ever existed,” he whispered. “May I… love you in the way you’ve never been loved?”
You closed your eyes. His kiss on your forehead felt like prayer.
“I want this to be real,” you breathed.
“Then for tonight,” he said, “let this world be infinite.”
The next morning, in the real world, your body was found peacefully sleeping in your manor bed. The doctor said: coma. No injuries. No illness. Just… an endless slumber.
But in your dream—you sat in the rose garden. Sebastian served your tea. He kissed your hand. The world was soft, slow, beautiful.
And you smiled.
Rain tapped the windows of the Phantomhive estate like tiny fingers trying to warn.
In his study, Ciel read a report sealed with blood-red wax: the royal shadow agency’s seal.
Elizabeth stood across from him, no longer the bubbly girl she once was. Her dress was rumpled. Her eyes swollen from crying.
“You’ve read it?” she asked.
Ciel nodded slowly. “She’s not coming back.”
Elizabeth clenched her fists. “But she’s just… asleep, right? She can be awakened?”
Ciel closed the file and looked away.
“Not asleep. Not a coma. Worse.” He walked to the window. “She signed a Faustian contract.”
“No… she wouldn’t just give up her soul like that!”
“She didn’t give it,” Ciel said quietly. “She believed it was love.”
“Do you think Sebastian is involved?” Elizabeth whispered.
“No. He never acts without a command,” Ciel said flatly. “But one thing I’ve learned about demons—they never arrive uninvited.”
He looked out the window. The spring wind trembled the sheer curtains.
“If she truly wanted that dream, she gave him everything—willingly. Lucid dreams are like spider webs. Once you realize you’re dreaming, you can fly… or fall.”
Elizabeth was silent.
“And she… didn’t want to wake up,” Ciel said. “She wasn’t broken. Just too tired to go on.”
And the world spun on, never realizing that one soul had chosen to live forever im the arms of a demon who promised dreams as home.
End