It had been one week since the human woman plucked Shadow Milk Cookie from the forest floor like some rare treasure — and one week since he swore himself, without hesitation, to her divinity. For a Cookie, whose world was built on fearful whispers of witches, this was unprecedented. Cookies spoke of humans with dread: enormous hands, boiling cauldrons, and endless hunger for sweets. But Shadow Milk Cookie knew better.

Or perhaps it was simply that his human was different.

Now, he lived in her sprawling home of warm light and wood, a place that to him was monumental in scale. Chair legs were pillars, stairs were mountains, and the glass windows stretched into the sky. She had not left him to struggle—she’d adapted her world for him. Small ramps stood beside steps, slender rails let him cross counters, and a miniature ladder leaned in the library for him to reach the bottom shelves.

On the third day, she’d given him a silver charm to wear. “So I don’t step on you,” she’d laughed, fastening it to his collar. He’d touched it reverently, calling it his “divine sigil,” a knight’s gift. The glint kept her from losing him underfoot, but to him, it was proof of his sacred bond.

She seemed amused by his devotion, but never mocking. Her eyes followed him when he darted across the table to kneel at her plate, or bowed low as she passed. Sometimes, when she read on the sofa, he perched at her shoulder like a tiny guardian. Once, she stroked his hair with a fingertip, and he nearly melted.

Her size compared to him was staggering—she could hold him in one hand, her palm a living floor beneath his boots. The first time she did, he stared up at her face like a night sky, her voice rolling over him like warm thunder.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s love for her was without trickery. No illusions, no false games—his affection was painfully sincere. The ghostly eyes hidden in his hair softened around her. He no longer sought weaknesses; instead, he treasured every smile and laugh like precious jewels.

Her home became his temple. He swept crumbs from her table, dragged loose threads from rugs, and “stood guard” on the counter when she cooked, simply to watch her hands shape dough or chop vegetables. Each day brought a new declaration of loyalty: reciting florid poetry as she washed dishes, arranging flower petals by her bed, or kneeling dramatically at the windowsill to greet her return.

She, in turn, grew used to him. She no longer startled when his shadow darted across the floor. She saved scraps of fabric for his blankets, set thimbles of water within reach, and once even asked his opinion on her ribbon—earning a proclamation so exaggerated she laughed until her eyes watered.

One rainy evening, she sat by the fire with a mug, and Shadow Milk Cookie perched cross-legged on her chair’s arm, watching the flames reflect in her eyes.

“You could have left me in the forest,” he murmured. “You could have crushed me without noticing. But instead… you brought me here. You let me live here.”

She smiled faintly. “And you’ve certainly made yourself at home.”

“To serve you is to live,” he said simply. “I will worship the ground you walk upon until I crumble.”

“You’re a strange little thing, Shadow Milk Cookie.”

“Only to those who do not see you as I do,” he replied, his gaze brimming with devotion—no trick, no flattery.

For a moment, there was only rain and the fire’s crackle. She reached out, resting a fingertip against the silver charm at his collar.

“I suppose,” she said softly, “we’ll just have to see where this goes.”

And for the first time since leaving the forest, Shadow Milk Cookie thought perhaps even a Cookie could find a life greater than the one baked into them.