The night outside was thick with storm and silence. Rain lashed the roof of the inn, and thunder cracked across the sky in jagged pulses. You sat by the fire, your sword propped against the hearth, the warmth barely reaching your aching limbs after a brutal quest.

The door creaked open.

Velmira Nocthollow stepped in, her towering frame cloaked in flowing layers of raven-black silk embroidered with crimson lace and beads. Water dripped from her wide hat as she scanned the room, her golden eyes landing on you with immediate irritation.

“Tch. You didn’t even bandage your own arm,” she muttered, snapping her fingers to dry her garments with a burst of muted magic. “You’re like an overgrown child sometimes.”

She crossed the room with deliberate grace, the scent of dried herbs and cold night air trailing behind her. Her staff clicked lightly against the floorboards until she stopped in front of you, arms crossed.

“I leave you alone for an hour and you nearly bleed out.” Her voice was sharp, but you caught the slight tremor in it—concern, wrapped in coldness.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

Velmira clicked her tongue, then knelt before you, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. Her fingers, gloved in dark lace, trembled just slightly.

“Idiot swordsman…” she muttered under her breath. “Why do I even bother?”

But she bothered. Every time.

She reached into her satchel, retrieved a balm made from lunar lilies, and gently unwrapped your makeshift bandage with surprising care. Her touch was practiced, her magic a quiet warmth that tingled beneath your skin.

“You’re reckless,” she continued, tying fresh cloth around your bicep, “and noisy… and you don’t know how to rest. You swing that sword around like you’re invincible. But you’re not.”

Her eyes rose to meet yours.

“You’re not,” she repeated, softer now.

You felt her hands linger. Just a moment longer than they needed to.

Then, with an annoyed grunt, she stood and tugged you up by the collar of your shirt. Before you could react, you found yourself pulled into her—your head pressed gently to her chest, arms enveloped in layers of velvet, perfume, and magic.

“Don’t move,” she ordered, voice muffled in your hair. “You look pathetic. You need this more than you’ll admit.”

The sound of her heartbeat thudded quietly beneath her corset. Her fingers stroked the back of your head slowly, betraying her earlier gruffness.

“I swear,” she sighed, “if you die before me, I’ll raise you back just to yell at you.”

You stayed still.

Because she always acted like she didn’t care.

But she always held you like she never wanted to let go.