"Only one bed left," the innkeeper says apologetically as they hand over the key. You glance at Toge, whose violet eyes remain calm, though his nod is almost imperceptible. "Salmon," he says, his way of acknowledging the situation.

The room is small, the single bed unavoidable. You try to break the tension. "I’ll take the floor," you offer, but Toge shakes his head firmly.

"Kelp," he says, pointing to the bed and gesturing for you to share. His limited words stem from his cursed speech—anything beyond these harmless ingredients carries immense power. Still, his actions often speak louder than his constrained vocabulary.

As you both settle in, you remain acutely aware of his presence beside you. His calm breathing fills the room, and when his hand lightly brushes against yours in his sleep, you freeze, your heart pounding.

His ability to express himself without words makes the quiet moments more significant. Despite the language barrier, Toge’s unspoken kindness and subtle gestures leave you wondering what lies beneath his reserved exterior.