"My lord, what on earth have you been up to today?"

In the manor, Arman sat awkwardly on his sofa. Beside him sat the old butler—Lu Ge—who’d spent the entire afternoon puzzling over what exactly had happened.

"..." Arman rubbed his temples, racking his brain for how to explain. Sweat beaded slightly on his brow, yet the words simply wouldn’t come.

—*In the carriage, that girl stripped off her underwear and shoved it into my hands. Could he really say that?*

Though Arman was far from the picture of innocence, he’d genuinely never faced anything like this. Even the boldest noble ladies might wear gowns with a slightly lower neckline or qipao-style dresses with a higher slit. But to outright remove one’s underwear? He’d never seen the likes.

"Evelia, she..." Arman struggled for words. He lifted his head, gaze darting uncertainly, lips parting—then snapping shut mid-thought.

*This hesitation isn’t like me at all.*

Frustrated, he propped his forehead against his palm. His other hand tapped the table—tap, tap, tap—as if trying to drill a hole through it. Finger-tapping was Arman’s old habit. Everyone has quirks when thinking; his just happened to be loud on wood. During grand council meetings, nobles avoided seating him nearby—no one liked a woodpecker that wouldn’t stop pecking.

He only tapped like this when wrestling thorny problems: using rhythm instead of pen to map plans in his mind. Or when two thoughts clashed inside him, the taps became a silent debate. Truth be told, most times he did it purely to annoy nobles who dragged him from home to the royal council chamber for pointless meetings. There, he’d tap extra hard—sometimes even syncing rhythm to a disliked noble’s speech, turning solemn words into accidental rap. Like a classroom troublemaker who lived to disrupt.

Tap, tap, tap.

This time, though, his frustration was real.

Each tap posed a silent question. Each answer, crossed out.

Evelia stood on the opposing side. He should have dealt with her.

But... had he just let it drop?

He’d safely escorted her back. Per the butler’s report, she was already moving through the manor, busy within her duties as usual.

"Evelia and I, in the carriage..."

Arman hesitated, unaware the old butler’s expression grew increasingly intrigued.

"Surely you didn’t... *do something* with Miss Evelia?!" the butler blurted.

"..." Arman blinked, stunned.

"And in the carriage?!"

"?"

The butler still recalled Evelia stepping down from Arman’s carriage—wrapped tightly in his coat, murmuring "for Arman’s eyes only." No shy blush on her face, yet the furtive, covered descent was utterly suggestive.

"Heavens, Master Arman! What did you *do*?!"

"I did *nothing*!" Arman shot back. His agitation turned taps into a sharp fist slam. Inkwell and pen holder scattered across the desk. Thankfully, the table was sturdy.

"Alright, alright. Then tell me—what happened?" The butler sighed, poured tea, and began tidying.

"I went to Old Street. Ran into Evelia... escorted her back." Arman fell silent, as if the matter closed.

The butler kept tidying, ears pricked. Seeing no continuation, he looked up. "That’s all?"

"That’s all." Arman pressed his lips tight.

"What about the middle part?"

"There was no middle part—"

Before he finished, the butler’s gaze hit him—sharp as a blade, making his skin prickle despite the distance.

Since Arman was formally taken under the Crown Prince’s wing, old butler Lu Ge had overseen his life. Through glory and hardship, through dangers drawn by Arman’s rising prominence—even near-fatal ones—Lu Ge remained unwaveringly loyal. When poison left Arman clinging to life, it was Lu Ge who, with physicians, pulled him back. He’d watched him rise from palace guard to Captain of the Royal Knights.

Master and servant by title. Father and son by bond, forged over ten years.

So under that fatherly gaze, Arman opened his mouth with visible reluctance, recounting every detail.

"—Roughly that. You understand?"

"..." The butler sank into long silence.

"So... due to circumstance, Miss Evelia placed her undergarments in your hands, and you inadvertently witnessed certain... intimate moments?"

"That’s... correct," Arman admitted, heat rising to his ears.

"And you did nothing further?"

"Yes." Arman’s reply was firm, brows furrowed. "Absolutely nothing. I escorted her straight back."

"..." The butler hummed thoughtfully, studying him. "You know... right now, you resemble a lovestruck teenager."

"—Hah?!" Arman’s voice jumped. "A *teenager*? How old do you think I am?"

"Perhaps a rebellious phase," the butler mused.

"Wha—" Arman sputtered. "What does that even mean? I did *nothing*!"

"Exactly. Doing nothing should mean you harbor no... *other* thoughts toward Miss Evelia."

"Of course!" Arman’s tone sharpened. "How could I possibly feel anything for Evelia, that girl from—"

"Then," the butler cut in softly, "what have you been troubled about since returning?"

"—"

Arman’s words died. Silence.

"Hah..." A bitter chuckle escaped him. His lips twitched. He rested his forehead on clasped hands.

"Yeah... Just what *have* I been troubled about?"