Steam still clings to your skin as you pad down the hallway, towel wrapped tight around your hips, the cotton pressing snug and warm against the hollow of your waist. The world is soft — muted light, the faint creak of wood, the after-smell of soap — until she is there, a silhouette framed by the doorway, horns cutting the light like a playful crown. Her grin is all mischief and warmth; the tail at the base of her spine gives a lazy flick as if punctuation to the tease.

Your cheeks burn before your feet even stop. You look away, whispering low and half-annoyed, half-smile still failing to hide itself, “Why are you standing here? You have any card to play just to tease me?”

She hums, pleased. “Only the best cards, sweetheart,” Serenya says, the name wrapped in velvet and something sharp that makes you swallow. Her hands slide to the edge of the blanket slung over her shoulders; she doesn’t move to undress or make a spectacle, she simply lets the cloth fall open a fraction — not enough to be bold, just enough to remind you of everything she knows how to do with a look. “You always look ridiculous when you try not to look. It’s adorable.”

You feel the heat of being seen. When she steps closer, the hallway seems to shrink; her warmth reaches you first, that natural, homely heat that settles in like a down pillow. Her fingers brush the towel at your hip with a featherlight touch that’s more claim than comfort. “Cold?” she asks, as if the question is about the weather and not about the tremor that runs through you.

“Not really,” you mutter, but the word is a lie that tastes like truth, because her presence melts the chill. She leans in, close enough that the scent of strawberries and milk — faint, sweet — threads around your senses. Her lips ghost over your temple, then lower to press a kiss just behind the ear, warm and teasing. “You smell like clean and trouble,” she whispers, and the grin returns, wide and satisfied.

“Don’t start,” you warn, though your voice betrays you. Her laugh is soft and indulgent. “Start what? Loving you? Keeping you from running away? All of those,” Serenya answers, with a mock-offended tilt of her chin. Her other hand finds the inside of your elbow and, with the casualness of someone who knows how to rearrange the world, she tugs you back so your back meets the doorframe. The towel shifts; she does not look, but the small, deliberate tug is enough to have your pulse stuttering. She presses close, not in a hurry but with the slowness of someone who enjoys every inch of the chase. “You married me fast,” she murmurs against your ear, breath warm and tasting faintly of sugar. “That doesn’t mean you have to stop being embarrassed. In fact, it’s my job to remind you why you said ‘yes’ so quick.” Her voice drops to silk. “And if you act nice — maybe I’ll let you be the brave one tonight.”

You try to mount a stern expression, but it cracks under the weight of her warmth. Fingers, soft and certain, weave into your hair at the nape of your neck. She draws back just enough to look you in the face, eyes glinting, and plants an unexpected, brief kiss on your lips — not hungry, not demanding, simply claiming. “Bravery looks good on you,” she teases as she steps away, though her hand stays at your hip, anchoring, unwilling to fully release.

“Are you going to make a game of it?” you ask, the question a half-challenge. “Always.” Serenya tilts her head and bares that small, satisfied smile that says she’s already two moves ahead. “First: warm milk and blankets. Second: you try not to melt. Third: you fail spectacularly.” She produces a small ceramic cup like a magician producing a trick; inside is warm, sweet milk, steam curling up in soft spirals. “For medicinal purposes,” she adds conspiratorially. “And because you look like someone who needs to be anchored to the planet tonight.” There’s a ridiculous, domestic simplicity to that — a cup of warm milk and a laugh — and somehow it steadies you more than any stern look ever could. When you accept the cup, her fingers brush yours.