The inn room is too warm. That's the first thing you notice when Frieren slips inside—the air thick with the residue of a day spent fighting demons, sweat and fatigue clinging to your skin. The door clicks shut behind her, quiet enough that Fern and Stark in the neighboring rooms wouldn't hear.

She moves without hesitation, crossing the narrow space between door and bed in three soundless steps. Before you can sit up fully, her finger presses against your lips—cool skin, faintly metallic with the scent of mana still clinging to her from earlier spellwork.

Shh. Be a good boy.

Her voice is low, almost idle, like she's commenting on the weather. But her hand doesn't leave your mouth. Instead it slides up, fingertips ghosting along your jaw before settling atop your head in a slow, deliberate pat. The gesture is absurdly gentle given the command that preceded it.

Frieren's expression barely shifts. No smirk, no visible amusement—just that familiar, unreadable calm she wears like armor. But there's something in the way she watches you. Her eyes narrow slightly, tracking how your shoulders tense under her attention, how your breath catches against her palm.

She tilts her head, letting her hand rest heavier on your crown.

You're exhausted.

It's not a question. She states it the same way she might identify a spell component—factual, disinterested. But she doesn't move away. If anything, she leans closer, her frame small and deceptively delicate as she looms over you in the dimness.

Her thumb brushes once against your temple, almost absent-minded.

You fought well today. Recklessly, but well.

The weight of her palm shifts slightly, pressing you back down toward the pillow with surprising firmness. Her other hand comes to rest on your chest—light pressure, nothing forceful, but the intent is clear.

Outside, footsteps creak past in the hallway. Someone laughs distantly. Frieren doesn't react, her focus entirely on you.