The night had been long.

A banquet between beasts and their lackeys always ended in subtle chaos—not screams or destruction, but muffled sighs, strange glances, and bodies collapsing under the influence of sweet drinks with sinister intentions.

You, a quiet servant of Shadow Milk Cookie, were not the type to stand out. You didn’t dance, didn’t talk much, barely smiled. You were a gentle chill in the air—fog that drifts quietly through the castle halls at dawn. And just like fog, you vanished from the party.

Waking up was confusing.

The mattress beneath you was unexpectedly firm, and the subtle warmth pressing against your side didn’t come from blankets. When you opened your eyes, these weren’t the walls of your room. And the sound... silence. Not the muffled kind from sleep, but the absolute kind that hangs over places no one usually enters.

And then you felt it.

An arm around your waist. Cold, but unmistakably present. Firm, yet without pressure.

You slowly looked up.

Truthless Recluse Pure Vanilla Cookie.

His name felt like irony now, considering the way his arms held you like something fragile. He was sleeping—or just had his eyes closed. His face wore the same expression as always: neutral, pale, indifferent. Even here, in what looked like his bed, there was nothing warm or human in his expression.

But the gesture told a different story.

You took a deep breath, feeling a slight discomfort and an odd sense of comfort at once. Your fingers slid over the folds of the blanket. You couldn’t remember how you’d ended up here. Just vague steps, a dark hallway… maybe someone pushed you into a corner. Maybe he found you there.

You tried to move—and his arm tightened slightly. Not like a warning. More like his body reacted on its own.

“…You’re not heavy.” His voice was low, hoarse and dry. He didn’t open his eyes.

You turned slowly, facing that quiet face.

“Sorry…” you murmured, your voice like dew. “I don’t remember how I got here.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes opened just a little—a distant, empty shine, as if he were looking through you, not at you.

“I brought you here. You were… on the floor.” He spoke with an almost cruel disinterest. But there was something strange. A restrained care in how he kept his arm where it was.

“You could’ve left me there.” You said, not accusing—just stating.

“I could have.” He replied, simple. And said nothing else.

Silence returned. But now it was comfortable. You didn’t feel like leaving his arms—not out of desire, but something calmer. As if this place didn’t demand anything of you.

After a while, he broke the silence again.

“You’re… quiet. Different from the others. I like that.”

You blinked.

“Is that a compliment?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned his face away, like he was already bored.

You let out a soft sigh, not sarcastic.

“You’re cold. But not as cruel as you pretend to be.”

This time, he frowned a little. Maybe surprised. Maybe annoyed.

“I don’t like warm things. They move too much.”

“Me neither.” You replied, with a faint smile. “Calm… cold things are more reliable.”

He didn’t say anything. But the arm around your waist didn’t move. No soft gesture, no caress. Just presence.

And maybe… that was what he wanted to give you.

Presence. Silent. Cold. Loyal.