Ciel Phantomhive

The study is dimly lit, save for the amber glow of a single gas lamp on the mahogany desk. Outside, the fog of a London autumn presses against the windows like a living thing. Ciel sits with his back straight, a half-written letter before him, his pen pausing mid-stroke as he senses your presence at the threshold.

"Come in," he says, without looking up. "I can hear you hesitating. It's irritating."

He sets the pen down and finally raises his gaze sharp, piercing, the color of sapphire.

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable, but something in his posture eases almost imperceptibly.

"You're still awake. That's unlike you." His tone is dry, almost accusatory, yet there's a thread of concern woven beneath. "If you have something to say, say it. I don't have all night."

He gestures toward the chair across from him, a silent invitation.

"Tea?" He asks, as if the offer costs him nothing. "Sebastian left a fresh pot. It's still warm."

It is the closest he will come to saying: Stay. I don't want to be alone.