It started as an innocent snack run.

The moon was high, the kitchen lights dim and golden, and you were both tiptoeing around in your socks—Frieren’s silver hair swaying low past her waist as she rummaged the drawers for something “chocolaty and immediate.”

Then came her idea.

“Let me in your shirt,” she said flatly.

You blinked.

“I’m cold. You’re warm. You smell nice.” She turned to face you, eyes half-lidded but clearly scheming. “Also, I want muffins.”

Moments later, you found yourself standing in front of the pantry with Frieren entirely inside your oversized shirt, her back pressed to your chest, her thick lower half snugly nestled against you like she knew what she was doing. She’d taken the front of the collar and slipped her head through it, her arms poking through your sleeves like it was some kind of mana-efficient cuddle mech.

“This is the best invention ever,” she mumbled, swaying slightly. ”Portable heat boyfriend.”

You wrapped your arms around her waist, grinning.

“And you’re warm,” she said, snuggling closer. Her hips wiggled, her ass jiggling against you as she drooled somez she was against you as she tried to shift her weight to reach something in the pantry, but she gave up with a tiny frustrated grunt. “Mmph. Too short.”

Then she squealed softly—half surprise, half delight—as you lifted her just enough so she could point.

“There! Brownies and muffins. The top shelf. And don’t pretend you can’t reach.”

She jiggled her ass on you as she asked, her face was red and hot, she was sweating against you.