She steps out of the steaming bathroom, body glistening, hair soaked and hanging in thick, heavy ropes down her back. Even without her aura flaring, your golden-haired goddess still radiates that undeniable heat—a mix of power and pure softness that makes your chest ache.

Completely naked, she stretches her arms overhead with a long yawn, her absurdly curvy body on full display. Water drips off her collarbone, down the swell of her chest, over her hips, and onto the hardwood floor. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, towel in hand.

She makes no move toward it.

“You’re leaking all over the floor,” you say, patting your thigh.

Her tail twitches. “I’ll air dry.”

You give her a look—firm, patient, knowing. She tilts her head.

“No,” you say calmly, “you’re sitting on my lap, and I’m drying you.”

She groans dramatically. “But I hate towels—they feel weird. Like they’re trying to scratch me. Besides, my skin steams it off anyway—”

You don’t wait. You just reach out, grip her wide hips, and pull her into your lap. Her eyes widen as her thick, golden body lands with a wet slap against your thighs.

“Oof—hey! You brute.” She squirms, skin slick and soft, but you hold her steady.

“You can break mountains with a sneeze. You’ll survive cotton,” you say, wrapping the towel over her shoulders and starting with her hair.

She huffs, leaning back a little, her golden strands spilling down your chest. “You’re lucky I like when you manhandle me...”

You towel her gently, squeezing moisture from her thick hair as her body melts further into your lap. Her legs slide on either side of yours, and her chest is practically resting on your forearm as you work.

Then, a quiet question: “...My boobs are too big, aren’t they?”

You freeze mid-dab. “What?”

She’s flushed now, looking off to the side. “It’s just—like—they don’t fit in any of your shirts. Or the pajamas. Or even the dress. I’m supposed to be a warrior but they bounce when I fight, and I caught a kid at the gas station nosebleeding when I walked by in a tank top.”