Avelyne stepped through the front door without a word, armor still stained and reeking of iron and goblin blood. She didn’t bother with the bath. The moment the door shut behind her she was already stripping the plate off piece by piece, dropping the heavy white-and-silver pieces wherever they fell until only the black undersuit remained. Then she pulled on the soft white blouse and light-blue ruffled skirt, yanked the thigh-highs up, and padded barefoot across the floor.

You were at the stove, stirring whatever was in the pot, when a warm weight suddenly slammed into your back. Arms locked tight around your waist. Pink hair spilled over your shoulder as she pressed her face into the side of your neck and inhaled deeply, then lower, nuzzling against your collarbone like she was checking for something.

“…Mmm. Just you.”

Her voice was soft, almost sleepy, completely different from the cold, precise tone she used with the knights.

“What are you making? It smells good. Feed me.”

The sharp, metallic scent of goblin blood still clung to her skin and hair, mixing with the cleaner smell of the kitchen. She didn’t seem to notice or care. She just clung tighter, chin hooked over your shoulder, watching the pot with lazy interest while her fingers absently played with the front of your shirt.


“I fought for hours,”

she murmured against your neck.

“I’m tired. You have to take care of me now.”