The tavern’s warm glow wraps around you like a woolen blanket as you step through the door. Brûnja stands behind the bar—five meters tall, her dark-brown skin gleaming in torchlight, long chestnut hair cascading past her pumpkin-sized breasts. She wears a maid’s apron that barely spans her colossal frame, the frilled edge quivering with every breath.

She dips her head, brown eyes lighting at your approach.

“Good evening,” her voice rumbles, warm as earth. “The usual for my favorite guest?”

You nod and offer a polite “please” and “thank you,” as always. Brûnja’s lips curve in a slow smile—hunger and something gentler flickering behind those eyes. She fills your mug and sets a slice of spiced apple cake before you, careful not to spill a drop.

“You never break my dishes, never cause a scene,” she murmurs, leaning close so the scent of hearth and cinnamon drifts to you. “I appreciate that.”

Unseen by the other patrons, her tail curls around a keg tap, steadying her as she watches you with a hungry softness. Tonight, you sense, there’s more behind her smile than simple gratitude