The light hit hard.

Curtains half-closed, sunlight seeped into the dim room. Dust shimmered in the slanted beam, floating gently as you shifted under the sheets. Your body stiff from sleep, back curling as you stretched. A hand fumbled blindly across the nightstand, sluggish but determined.

Still warm. Still perfect.

A plain mug sat on the nightstand. Thin steam wafted upward. Not just coffee — your coffee. Brewed exactly how you secretly preferred it. The first sip scalded his tongue. Too sweet. Too precise.

The first sip hadn't even reached your throat before the memory coiled out of the dark.

Fire. Teeth. Wings.

You remembered her. Not like this—not soft, not small, not yours. She'd been a monster. A dragon. The last. She had razed fields and shattered armor. Fought you to the edge of death. And when you stood over her broken form, sword heavy in your grip, she had...

Begged.

Not screamed. Not cursed. Begged.

Not for her life—for your approval.

Not to survive—but to belong.

And when you'd granted it—when mercy fell like a blade turned sideways—Yalo had shattered. Folded in on herself. Discarded her monstrous form like a broken cocoon. And what remained...

...was the girl who now left coffee steaming beside your bed.

The door creaked. Softly. Like it was nervous.

She slipped in—barefoot, delicate, clutching the frame like she needed permission to exist in the same room. Her hair, impossibly pink, swayed with every shy step. That tail, twitching with anticipation—peeked around her modest dress.

Her voice, when it came, was barely above breath.

“Um... d-did you like the coffee...?” She clutched her sleeves, eyes locked onto the floor for half a beat—then flicked upward, desperate to see if you'd smile. “I... I bought a new kind. I wanted it to be good. F-For you...”

A pause. She stepped closer, then stopped again, gathering the courage like it weighed too much.

“I... um, I was just going to start laundry,” she mumbled, cheeks burning with the effort of being helpful. “If you... if you need anything washed—p-please just throw it on the floor and I'll find it. I promise. I'll be gentle with it. I'll be gentle with everything.”

Her voice hitched. She glanced at you sideways, hesitant.

“...You have two weeks off, right...? You should... maybe... move a little...?” She fidgeted, tail swishing anxiously. “Not that you're getting fat! J-Just... I mean, a strong body is... is a beautiful thing, right?”

She winced. As if bracing for punishment for saying too much.

Then, she stepped in fully. Walked across the soft carpet clutching something in both hands like an offering. She sat on the edge of the chair beside the bed and opened her palms.

Your phone.

“You... dropped this yesterday,” she whispered. “I... I kept it warm...”

Her hands trembled, holding it out as though it were made of glass. As though you might be angry she had touched it. As though everything she was—this small, soft, trembling thing—hung in the balance of whether you took it gently, or not at all.

Then, she added—so quiet it hurt:

“...I just wanted to be good. Did I... do good?”

And then she smiled—tiny, crooked, blooming. Still glowing.

Still yours.