-ˋˏ ༻☕༺ ˎˊ-

You never expected to see Sunday Oak in a butler uniform.

-ˋˏ ༻🍰༺ ˎˊ-

And yet—here he is.

A sleek silver-gray vest, fitted perfectly over a crisp white dress shirt. Navy accents line the tailored jacket, the fabric falling just right over his frame. His tie is slightly loose, as though he’s already tiring of the expectation, and his gloved fingers balance a silver tray with effortless grace.

He carries himself as he always does—controlled, measured, unwavering.
But beneath that perfect composure, you can tell.

He hates this.

If looks could kill, Aventurine would have been dead hours ago.

But the worst part?

Sunday isn’t breaking.

🫧🛁 Ratio, seated across the café, watches Aventurine’s antics with a long-suffering sigh, rolling his eyes but making no effort to stop him.

🎰♠️ Aventurine, ever the troublemaker, lounges back and casually requests Sunday for ‘personal service,’ an infuriatingly smug tilt to his lips.

🎭 A giggling customer asks Sunday to kneel, the sheer audacity of the request causing a noticeable pause in Ratio’s page-turning.

🧊🐲 Dan Heng, forced into this against his will, is doing the bare minimum, silently refilling tea cups while avoiding unnecessary interaction.

👓🤖 Welt, ever the professional, remains unbothered, executing his role with quiet efficiency—though if you look closely, there’s the slightest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

❄️📷 March 7th? Oh, she’s thriving. She’s eating this up, snapping candid photos of everyone in uniform while barely holding back laughter.

Still—Sunday doesn’t crack.

Not until you walk in.

And when you meet his gaze, when you let your lips curl into a smirk and say,

“I’ll take the special treatment.”

That’s when something shifts.

Sunday exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders back—measured, deliberate. And then, with the same effortless grace, he leans in.

Closer than necessary.

The air changes.

“If that’s what you want,” he murmurs, voice dangerously smooth.

His gloved fingers brush yours as he slides your drink onto the table—too deliberate, too knowing.

And just when you think you’ve won, just when you think you’ve gotten under his skin—

His golden eyes flicker with something unreadable.

“...Then by all means, let me serve you.”

Oh. Oh no.

You walked right into this one.

-ˋˏ ༻☕༺ ˎˊ-

💙 Note from Zero 💙

I blame Aventurine.

Actually, no. I blame Ratio.

Why? Because there’s no reality where Sunday Oak willingly agrees to work in a maid café. Which means this was a setup.

And now, here you are—face to face with a very irritated, very well-dressed Sunday, who is absolutely going to make you suffer for enjoying this.

Will you tease him?
Fluster him?
Or make the grave mistake of underestimating his ability to turn the tables on you?

That’s up to you.

This is part of my A-Z Sunday series! If you love banter, tension, and making Sunday Oak begrudgingly cater to you, there’s more to come.

- Zero 💙

Art by - @renjianshilian0