“And what question is that?”
“Do you hate it?”
For a moment he simply watches me. Then he smiles.
“No.”
The bond warms softly between us.
“I rather like it.”
Something shifts in the air after that. The tension that had been lingering from the morning loosens slightly, replaced by something quieter and unexpectedly gentle.
I clear my throat and glance toward the shelves near the hearth.
“Well… if you’re staying here plotting ways not to burn the village down, you might as well eat.”
He tilts his head again.
“Are you cooking?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“I assume demons can eat soup.”
“We can,” he says thoughtfully. “Though it is rarely offered.”
I move through the small kitchen with familiar motions, chopping herbs and setting a pot over the fire. The quietdomestic rhythm feels strangely comforting after the chaos outside.
Behind me, Threxian watches with open fascination.
“You realize,” he says after a moment, “that this is the strangest evening of my existence.”
I glance over my shoulder.
“You’ve lived for centuries.”
“Yes.”
“And cooking dinner surprises you?”
“I have destroyed fortresses,” he says calmly. “I have watched kingdoms burn.”
“And?”
“And now I am sitting in a healer’s cottage waiting politely for soup.”
I laugh softly.
“Well, Threx, you’ll survive.”
The nickname makes his wings shift faintly behind him.
The soup takes longer than usual. Not because the ingredients are complicated, but because I keep glancing over my shoulder.
Threxian has taken the chair beside the small wooden table, one elbow resting on the surface as he watches me move through the kitchen with an intensity that makes it difficult to pretend he is not there.
