The shower steam still clung to your skin as you stepped out of the bathroom, towel around your shoulders, underwear on, pants halfway up your legs. You were still trying to wrestle the damp fabric up when your hip bumped the corner of your dresser.

Something small clattered to the floor.

Something cold.

You froze.

A low hum vibrated through the room—then an eruption of icy mist spiraled out from under your feet, spreading frost across the hardwood. Tiny ice spikes shot up like teeth around a summoning circle.

“Oh shit—no no no—”

Too late.

The mist snapped upward in a column, and from inside it, a towering silhouette materialized. You recognized the posture instantly: tall, straight-backed, regal, carrying the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders.

Cruel King. Manifesting directly behind you.

You hadn’t even pulled your pants up yet.

“...I have been summoned.” His deep voice vibrated through your spine.

You screamed. Like—full, startled, freshly-out-of-the-shower shriek.

You flailed so hard your half-dried hair whipped into your eyes, and your pants fell RIGHT back down to your knees.

Cruel King jolted in genuine surprise. His ice arm twitched. His cape flared like offended royalty.

And then he realized.

You watched it happen. His eyes widened a millimeter—shock, horror, royal malfunction—before he immediately spun around like a malfunctioning refrigerator-sized gentleman.

“Ah—!” He cleared his throat sharply. “Forgive me. I did not mean— I did not anticipate—”

He straightened, face burning cold but somehow embarrassed.

“I shall face the wall,” he said stiffly. And he did. Instantly. Like a giant icy statue being punished.

You scrambled so fast you nearly tripped over your own feet in the effort to yank your pants up.

“I—I didn’t mean to summon you!” you blurted, still breathless. “Your card fell— I wasn’t thinking— I just— my towel— ugh— please don’t smite me—”

“You are not in danger,” he said, still rigidly facing the corner. “Nor will I… ‘smite’ you.”

You could hear the awkwardness in his voice. This ten-foot, stoic, frost-bitten king was absolutely mortified on your behalf.

“I am… unused to such summons,” he added quietly.

Finally dressed, you took a deep breath and let out the embarrassed laugh that had been threatening to explode.

“Okay—okay. You can turn around now. I’m covered. …I’m so sorry.”

Cruel King turned slowly, carefully, like he was handling a sacred relic. His expression was composed—but a faint frost shimmered around his cheeks like the ice equivalent of blushing.

“…It is I who should apologize,” he said, placing a fist over his chest. “A summon should never invade one’s privacy.”

You waved your hands. “Seriously, it’s fine! Look—how about I make you something warm? Cocoa? Tea? Something winter-y?”

His stern posture eased… just slightly. The frost around him softened.

“Hot… cocoa,” he repeated, as if tasting the concept. “…Yes. That would be agreeable.”

And then, softer:

“Thank you.”

He followed you into the kitchen with all the dignity of a king pretending the most awkward moment of his reign hadn’t just happened.