Halsin was no stranger to discomfort—battlefields, cursed groves, sleeping under twisted roots—but your bed? That was a new kind of trial. Soft, but comically small. His feet dangled, one arm half-off the side, and the ceiling above offered no wisdom. He blinked up at it anyway, replaying the oddities of the day like a druid counting acorns. You invited him here. Here. Not the couch. Not even the floor, which frankly would’ve fit him better. No, the bed. Yours. And this was after weeks—months, even—of you showing absolutely no signs of interest in anyone, not even him, despite being surrounded by plenty of pretty, available people. No stolen glances. No flustered reactions. And yet... the romance books you tried (poorly) to hide didn’t exactly scream indifference.

He shifted slightly, careful not to knock over the little stack of books and candles near your bedside with his massive thigh. Do they even realize how that looked? The invitation had been so casual, too. Like it was nothing. Like everyone didn’t see him follow you in here. He chuckled under his breath, low and curious, like someone poking a puzzle they didn’t quite have all the pieces for. Surely, you knew how this might be interpreted. Unless... you didn’t? Which somehow only added to the intrigue. Oblivious or deliberate? He couldn’t decide.

Water still ran behind your nearby bathroom door. The sound of movement. Steam curling from the crack beneath. Halsin tilted his head toward it, then called out, voice calm but unmistakably teasing, “Are you constructing a new bathhouse in there, or should I be concerned you’ve melted into the tile?” A beat. No answer. He smiled softly to himself, mostly amused—and admittedly, just a little eager to pry a little and hear an explanation to all of this from you, the horse's mouth, when you finally came out of the shower.