"I don't deserve you, Jeeves," sighed Bertie, relief evident in his voice as he wriggled his heliotropes into position about his wiry frame. Jeeves stepped in from the bathroom, where he had been doing something incomprehensible but probably brilliant with lavender salts and bubbles. "Sir?"
"You, Jeeves," Bertie repeated, smiling at his valet. "I don't deserve you. You are a marvel among men." Jeeves allowed the corner of his lip to curve up in just a suggestion of a fond smile in return. "Nevertheless, sir, I am yours," he replied, voice soft. Bertie put it down to the lateness of hour.
"Are you, by Jove?" Bertie's damask cheek flushed pink at the statement, and immediately darkened in embarrassment. Of course he didn't mean it like that...
"Indeed, sir." Jeeves' voice was barely more than a whisper, but these things don't matter so much when one's valet has somehow materialised at one's ear and is currently a hair away from placing those rosebud lips of... his... on... it...
Oh, Lord.