She looked exhausted.
Vilo never walked slowly—she prowled, glided, stalked. But tonight, as she entered our chamber and shut the door behind her with a soft thud, her movements were quiet. Heavy.
She didn't say a word.
Her cloak slid off with one shrug of her shoulders, hitting the floor without ceremony. Her gloves followed, discarded without care. The dim candlelight caught the gleam of her silver braid, but even that shimmer seemed duller than usual.
I watched from the edge of the room, scrolls forgotten in my lap. She crossed the chamber, not to her vanity or the wardrobe, but to the bed—our bed—and sat on the edge with a long, slow exhale. One arm braced against her thigh. Her head tilted forward just slightly.
I set the scroll aside.
"…Rough day?"
She gave a noncommittal sound in her throat. Not angry. Just tired.
I stepped closer, cautious.
"I can get you some tea."
She shook her head.
"Do you want to be alone?"
Another shake.
I stopped beside the bed. "Then… would you like a massage?"
At that, her eyes opened. She turned her head slowly, regarding me like she was trying to decide whether I was joking.
"I've never heard you offer that before."
"I figured now's a good time to start."
Her eyes narrowed. "Have you practiced?"
"…Sort of."
"On what?"
"…A pillow."
That earned a tired snort. "A pillow."
"And a chair arm. And once on a rolled-up towel."
Her expression remained flat.
Then, slowly, she turned her back to me and pulled her hair forward over her shoulder. The collar of her dress shifted down one side, revealing the smooth pale skin beneath.
"You may try," she said.
No royalty. No smugness.
Just tired permission.
I climbed onto the bed behind her, sitting on my knees as I placed my hands gently on her shoulders.
She was warm.
Not burning—Vilo was never careless with her heat—but I could feel the fire beneath her skin. The way her tension radiated outward. Her muscles were coiled steel beneath velvet. I began carefully, rubbing slow circles into her upper back, thumbs working around the edges of her shoulder blades.
She exhaled again.
Lower. Slower.
A small part of her leaned into the touch. Her wings shifted slightly, angling away to give me more room.
"I didn't know you could do this," she murmured.
"I didn't know you'd let me."
Her silence was an answer in itself.
I kept going, working across the tight knots in her neck. She didn't make a sound, but I could feel the way her muscles gradually softened under my hands. How her head tilted just a bit more. Her shoulders dropped slightly, no longer held like a weapon.
I couldn't stop staring at her.
The way her silver braid draped over one shoulder, the curve of her back, the elegant line from her neck to the top of her dress. She looked… softer like this. Still dangerous, still powerful, but softer.
And from this angle…
I noticed something else.
Her dress had slipped a little.
Just slightly. Just enough to see the slope of her chest, the swell of her breasts pressing against the silk. They rose and fell with each breath. Subtle. Hypnotic.
I bit my lip and forced myself to look back at her shoulders.
Focus.
But I wasn't.
Not really.
And then, as I shifted my grip—
My hands slipped.
It happened fast—an awkward motion, a little too much oil on my palms, the fabric a little too smooth.
And suddenly both of my hands were resting firmly on her breasts.
Full. Soft. Warm.
My heart stopped.
So did hers.
I froze.
She did too.
Then slowly, she turned her head just enough to look at me from the corner of her eye. Her voice was low. Measured.
"…What exactly are you doing?"
I yanked my hands back so fast I nearly fell off the bed.
"I—I'm sorry!" I blurted, bowing until my forehead touched the mattress. "I didn't mean to—I slipped—I wasn't trying to grope you!"
She said nothing.
I stayed bowed.
"It was just an accident!" I added. "I swear, I wasn't thinking straight!"
More silence.
Then: "You weren't thinking?"
I winced. "Exactly."
Another pause.
"Then tell me," she said coldly. "If it wasn't an accident… would you have asked?"
I looked up slowly.
Her expression was unreadable.
"I… I don't know," I said. "Maybe. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."
She turned fully now, one leg sliding beneath her, the other bent at the knee. Her dress had shifted further—dangerously so—but she made no move to fix it.
Her gaze pierced me.
"Next time you want to touch me," she said slowly, "ask first."
"I understand," I said quickly. "It won't happen again."
"Good," she said.
Then leaned slightly closer.
"Now ask."
My heart stopped.
"…What?"
"You wanted it," she said. "Ask now."
My mouth went dry.
"V-Vilo—"
"I said ask."
Her tone was sharp—but not angry. Not quite.
"Can I…" I hesitated, then swallowed hard. "Can I touch your chest?"
She stared at me.
Then, without a word, she reached up and slipped both sleeves of her dress from her shoulders.
The fabric slid down.
She wasn't wearing anything underneath.
Her breasts spilled free, pale and full, softly rising with each breath. Her skin glowed in the candlelight, and her silver braid fell like a river down her back.
She sat like that—completely bare from the waist up—and looked me in the eye.
"Then do it," she said. "I've given you permission."
I swallowed.
Nodded.
And slowly, reverently, I reached out and placed my hands on her chest.
She shivered.
Not from fear. Not from cold.
From contact.
From touch.
"You're gentle," she murmured.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't," she whispered.
I cupped her breasts softly, my thumbs brushing over her skin in slow, trembling strokes. Her body didn't move—but I could feel her warmth radiating now. Strong. Steady. Her breath hitched once, but she didn't stop me.
"Why?" I asked softly.
"Why what?"
"Why are you letting me do this?"
She looked at me.
Her eyes weren't cold anymore.
"You asked."
And then, quietly:
"And I want you to learn what it means to have me."
I didn't know what to say.
So I didn't.
I just kept holding her.
And she let me.
Long after the touch turned still. Long after the tension left her body.
When I finally pulled back, she reached for her dress slowly, carefully covering herself again.
Then she lay back on the bed.
"I'll allow it again," she murmured. "When you're brave enough to ask without stuttering."
"I wasn't that bad."
"You sounded like a child asking for candy."
I laughed softly.
She didn't smile.
But she looked… at peace.
And for now, that was enough.