Nobody touched it.

The realization came to Kim Soleum so suddenly that he found himself standing motionless in the middle of the courtyard, staring at a cluster of white flowers swaying beneath the moonlight.

Their petals trembled softly whenever the wind passed through them, brushing against one another with a sound so faint it was almost impossible to hear.

Years.

It had been years.

Years since he had last seen Reader.

Years since he had heard her voice.

Years since he had been dragged away from the world that contained her.

And yet this place remained exactly the same.

The ghost story had not grown. It had not evolved. No ambitious authors had inserted new records into it. No explorers had expanded its mythology. Nobody had created strange theories or dramatic additions. It had simply remained here, forgotten among thousands of other narratives, untouched by everyone who passed it by.

For some reason, that hurt more than he expected.

Reader had always looked lazy to people who didn't know her well. She moved slowly, spoke softly, and possessed the remarkable ability to spend an entire afternoon curled beneath a blanket without accomplishing anything visible.

Yet anyone who actually knew her understood the truth. Once she cared about something, she poured her whole heart into it. She would spend hours revising a single paragraph. She would lose sleep researching insignificant details that nobody else would ever notice. She would work herself into exhaustion and then smile as though it had cost her nothing.

She had done that with this ghost story. He knew she had.

He remembered watching her write it.

Back then, he hadn't understood why she cared so much. The memory surfaced with painful clarity.

Reader had been sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced precariously on her knees. Several empty tea cups occupied the table nearby, evidence that she'd been working far longer than she'd intended. The television played quietly in the background, completely ignored. Kim Soleum had been scrolling through his phone when curiosity finally got the better of him.

"Why this one?"

She looked up immediately. "Hm?"

"This ghost story."

Reader blinked once before glancing back toward the screen.

"Oh." Her answer didn't come right away. Instead, she stared thoughtfully at the unfinished draft, fingers resting above the keyboard as though searching for words she wasn't entirely certain existed.

"I don't know."

Soleum raised a brow. "You don't know?"

A small laugh that made his heart skip a beat escaped her.

"No..." Then she smiled, the sight of it still lived vividly inside his memory.

Warm enough to make the entire room feel brighter.

"I just felt like I had to."

At the time, it had seemed like such an ordinary answer. Now, standing inside the ghost story itself, Soleum wasn't so sure.

His gaze drifted slowly around the courtyard.

The flowers.

The lanterns.

The wind chimes.

The warm light spilling from paper windows.

Everything felt familiar in ways he struggled to explain. It wasn't because he had seen these things before. Rather, it felt as though he was walking through someone's heart. Every corner carried traces of a person he knew intimately, from the careful placement of decorations to the overwhelming sense of comfort that lingered throughout the house.

Reader had always been like that.

She was never weak.

There was strength hidden inside every act of kindness she performed. A silent determination that revealed itself whenever someone needed her.

The sort of strength that made him feel safe, that made him want to come home. The very same strength he had spent years desperately trying to return to.

His chest tightened.

Home.

That word had become inseparable from her.

Whenever he imagined returning, he never pictured the apartment first.

He pictured Reader. Waiting near the window, half asleep and wrapped in a blanket as she smiled when he walked through the door.

The image had sustained him through nightmares that should have broken him.

And now...

Now he stood inside a ghost story she had written long before his disappearance.

A ghost story where she herself was the ghost.

The thought settled heavily inside him.

Reader had always possessed an unusual level of self-awareness. She understood herself better than anyone else ever could. If somebody had asked her to create a character based on herself, she would have done so effortlessly. She knew her strengths. Her flaws. The habits she wished she could change and the ones she'd long since accepted.

Nobody knew Reader better than Reader,

Except perhaps him.

That was why this place felt so painful.

Every flower she would have planted. Every cup of tea she would have prepared. Every act of hospitality she would have offered.

This wasn't merely a ghost story.

It was Reader herself, translated into narrative form.

And suddenly Soleum understood why looking around hurt so much. Because after years of separation, this was the closest he had come to seeing her again.

Not a memory, a photograph, or a dream.

Her.

Or at least the version of herself she had chosen to leave behind. The version she had unknowingly entrusted to an unpopular ghost story nobody cared enough to read.

Kim Soleum knew the rules long before he was even pulled into this devastating world.

The tea remained untouched between them.

Steam curled gently from the porcelain cup, carrying a faint scent of honey and flowers. It looked warm. It felt comforting.

But he knew better.

It was dangerous.

The first exploration record had made the warning very clear.

Never consume anything offered by the resident ghost.

Visitors who did never left.

Nobody knew what happened afterward.

Some people believed they became a part of the narrative, and others claimed they simply forgot they ever wanted to leave.

Either way, nobody ever returned.

The cup remained where it was.

Untouched.

Kim Soleum's fingers curled tighter beneath the table, trembling.

Not from fear, but from something he desperately wanted to bury.

Because he knew deep down, this was still a ghost story. A ghost story written by someone he held so dear.

The ghost seemed unconcerned.

She merely sat opposite him with her own cup cradled carefully between both hands.Quiet and relaxed.

Completely content with the silence.

And the room felt warm.

Too warm.

Outside, moonlight painted silver patterns across the courtyard while wind chimes sang softly beneath the night breeze. Somewhere beyond the walls, flowers rustled gently against one another.

Everything about this place felt wrong.

Not because it was frightening, because it was the opposite.

The house felt lived in.

So loved and safe.

The sort of place exhausted people dreamed about finding. The sort of place capable of convincing someone to stay.

His gaze drifted toward the tea again.

It smelled of honey.

Reader always added honey.

The realization made his chest ache. He looked away immediately, and the ghost noticed.

Of course she did. She always did.

"You know, you don't have to drink it."

Her voice was soft.

The same voice.

God.

The same voice.

"I know." The response came out rougher than intended.

The ghost lowered her gaze apologetically.

"Sorry."

There it was again.

That apology.

That ridiculous apology.

The one Reader used for everything.

A knot formed in his throat, his eyes burned.

Years.

It's been years.

Years since he had heard her voice.

Years since he had seen that expression.

Years since he had sat across from her like this.

The ghost remained quiet for a moment before speaking softly again.

"You miss someone."

Kim Soleum froze.

"I can tell from your face." The ghost calmly stared into her teacup.

A very long silence followed.

Silence was something Reader never feared. Most people rushed to fill silence, but Reader never did.

She treated it like a companion and she found comfort in it.

He missed hearing her shuffle through the apartment in his shirt. He missed watching her struggle to stay awake on his chest during movies she insisted she wanted to finish.

The memories hurt. Everything hurts...

His chest tightened, his heart felt like it would break at any second now if she spoke one more thing that'll hit something deep.

She eventually looked up, his and her eyes meeting. And she smiled so softly and so warmly.

The exact same smile he had spent years desperately trying not to forget.

Something inside his chest twisted violently.

Because until now, until this exact moment—he hadn't actually seen her.

He had only seen her fragments.

The same mannerisms.

The same expressions.

Her habits.

He had spent most of the encounter avoiding her face. Avoiding the details. Desperately avoiding the reality of what stood before him.

He had always been pathetic man and a coward. He knew what would happen if he looked for far too long.

Yet somehow—he looked anyway.Because why wouldn't he?

And suddenly there she was.

Not the ghost—It was her.

The slight curve of her eyes whenever she smiled, the softness in her expression, the quiet kindness that seemed woven into every feature she owns.

Her gentleness, her delicate movements.

The familiarity.

Every tiny detail he had spent years trying desperately to remember, and e every detail he had been terrified of forgetting.

It's right in front of him.

His breath caught.

The room blurred and something sharp lodged itself in his chest.

Her.

Her name echoed endlessly inside his mind.

For years he had been surviving on his memories.

The sound of her laughter, the feeling of her hand in his, the image of her waiting by the door.

Those tiny pieces.

No matter how desperately someone tries to hold on,

Some memories still fade.

But this was different.

For the first time in what felt like eternity... He could finally see her, and it destroyed him.

Because he had forgotten things.

This is cruel.

The exact shape of her beautiful smile, the way her eyes softened whenever she looked at someone she loved—him, it had always been him.

It was the little things.

The things he thought he remembered perfectly.

And now, seeing them again, realizing he'd forgotten those details—he felt like being torn apart.

His vision blurred, his fists clenching on his lap to the point of numbing.

The ghost tilted her head, concern immediately appearing on her face and his breath hitched pathetically.

It was the exact same way Reader always looked whenever something was wrong.

"Are you alright?"

That did it.

That was what broke him.

It wasn't only the memories, her mannerisms, her habits.

It was her question.

Because Reader always... always asked that.

Always.

No matter what she was feeling, no matter what she was going through, no matter how tired she was.

She always asked about his well-being first.

The concern in her voice was so painfully familiar to a past that something finally cracked.

His eyes burned and his throat tightened.

A very long time of loneliness suddenly felt unbearable.

A very long time of missing her.

A very long time of surviving without her.

A very long time of promising himself that he'd return.

A very long time of wondering whether she was okay.

Whether she was safe, she was waiting, or she still smiled like this at his absence.

The weight of it crashed into him all at once.

And for one terrible moment... He wanted to drink the tea she offered with so much love he had been desperately trying to come back to.

Not because he wanted to stay, not because he wanted to abandon home.

But because home was sitting across from him.

Smiling.

Looking at him with Reader's eyes, asking if he was alright.

He was so tired.

So unbelievably tired.

The cup sat between them quietly, waiting.

One sip.

That was all it would take.

One sip.

And he would never have to leave this place. Never have to lose her again. Never have to wonder whether he was remembering her correctly. Never have to spend another night missing her.

The thought horrified him.

Kim Soleum knew exactly what would happen if he drank it.

The rules had been clear from the very beginning. Accept anything offered by the resident ghost, and sooner or later the narrative would claim you for itself. Whether that meant becoming part of the story or simply losing the desire to leave, nobody knew.

The result was the same.

You never went home.

And yet his gaze kept drifting back to the cup, to everything.

The honey-scented steam rose into the warm lantern light, twisting through the air before disappearing. Beyond the open windows, moonlight blanketed the courtyard in silver. White flowers swayed softly beneath the wind, and every now and then a petal would break loose and drift across the garden like a wandering piece of snow.

The house felt peaceful... So painfully peaceful.

He knew this feeling, this warmth, this peacefulness. Reader had always loved places like this.

No, that wasn't right.

Reader was places like this.

The clarification struck so suddenly that he nearly laughed.

A bitter, exhausted thing that never quite escaped his throat.

Every room in this house carried traces of her. Not the obvious traces, there were no photographs, no declarations, no signs that screamed her name.

It was smaller things—the blankets folded neatly in the corner, the fresh flowers placed beside the empty windows, the lantern left burning against the evening darkness, the silence that never felt uncomfortable, the quiet sense that someone had been thinking of others before themselves.

Her.

Her.

Her.

Everywhere he looked, she was there.

And he hated it.

God.

He hated it.

For the first time since entering this darkness, Soleum felt something dangerously close to resentment.

Not toward the ghost.

Toward her.

The thought shocked even him. Even now, even after everything, yet it refused to leave.

Because what the hell was she thinking?

What possessed her to create something like this?

Why had she written herself into a ghost story?

Why had she filled it with all these pieces of herself?

Why had she created a place that felt so much like coming home?

Years ago, she smiled and told him she didn't know why she wrote it.

That she simply felt she just had to.

At the time, he'd accepted the answer.

Now he wanted to grab her shoulders and demand a better one, a better answer.

Because she wasn't here.

She wasn't sitting across from him, not offering him tea, not looking at him with concern.

And yet every single corner of this narrative insisted otherwise. She shifted slightly, her fingers tightening around the teacup.

The movement was familiar, so familiar that his stomach twisted, because it reminded him of her perfectly.

There was no distortion, not even an exaggerated detail. No romanticized image created by a man blinded by grief.

It was simply her.

The way she held cups. The way she sat. The way she tilted her head whenever she worried over him. The way she smiled. The way she listened. The way she occupied a room without ever demanding attention.

It was all there, and that was exactly the problem.

Because the closer this ghost resembled her, the more unbearable the differences became.

The ghost did not know why he stared.

She didn't know why his hands trembled, why his eyes burned and teared every single time she smiled.

She didn't know about the times they spent together, not knowing about promises, love, him.

And she never would.

The realization settled inside his chest like broken glass, so painfully. The ghost possessed her face—her lovely voice, her habits, and her familiar gaze.

But every memory they had built together didn't belong to the ghost of herself she had created.

It was the real Reader.

The woman waiting beyond this story, the woman he couldn't reach, the woman he had spent years trying to return to.

His throat tightened.

For a moment, he found himself wishing this place had been crueler.

Wishing it had been a nightmare instead.

A monster, a cursed house filled with blood, terror, and screams.

Anything would've been easier than this, even if it crushed him, even if it scared him shitless, even if it made him go insane.

Anything would have been kinder.

Because at least monsters didn't wear the faces of people you loved. At least monsters didn't smile like they remembered you. At least monsters didn't make you feel at home.

The ghost looked up again.

Their eyes met.

Concern immediately softened her features.

And Kim Soleum nearly broke.

Not because she looked, sounded and felt just like her.

But because for a single reckless second, some pathetic part of him wanted to play make pretend.

Just for a moment.

Just for one selfish, horrible moment—he wanted to forget that this was just a ghost story.

Forgetting the rules, the years between them, the cruel reality.

He wanted to sit here and pretend she was really waiting for him. That he had finally come home.

The thought made him feel sick.

Because it wasn't true, it would never be true.

No matter how much he wanted it, no matter how much it hurt.

The woman sitting across from him wasn't Reader. And perhaps that was why every glance felt like a knife. Because each time he looked at her, he found another reason to love Reader, and another reason to miss her even more than he already have.

His eyes lowered to the untouched tea, it's surface reflected trembling lantern light.Still waiting quietly.

Much like the ghost, the entire darkness itself.

Kim Soleum closed his eyes.

And somewhere beneath the grief, beneath the longing, beneath the overwhelming urge to stay exactly where he was, a single thought surfaced.

He detested her for this.He truly did, because she created this story.

For leaving behind something capable of tearing him apart.

For understanding him well enough that even years later she could still reach into his chest and squeeze his heart until it hurt to breathe, like he was suffocating.

No, he really is.

He detested her for making a place that felt so much like her. For making him miss her even more than he already did.

He detested her, really really detested her.

But oh that woman, he loved her. He loved her so much it hurts.

Helplessly and completely,

With every shattered pieces of himself.

But perhaps the worst part of all this was the itch. He scratched at his neck incessantly, his steel-like claws eating through the scabbed over skin resting on top of his jugular, on top of the scars that his creator had left behind. The two twin bites that had sealed his fate all those years ago. Drifter would never admit it, but that concerned him. Deeply.

He dug his talons deeper, plunging them further into his flesh, pushing past veins and dense muscle to reach the epicenter that burned beneath his skin, muttering Latin curse words underneath his breath at the insufferable tingling sensation buried somewhere inside him. He’d tried to pay it no mind on the day it had emerged a month ago, assuming that ignoring it would make the problem disappear. It didn’t.

He wriggled his fingers frantically, stretching and reaching, and rubbing at every possible angle, desperately hoping that he’d finally claw the sensation away, but it was no use. The itch persisted, in fact it seemed to worsen the sensation no longer ignorable, the tingling sensation evolving into a nearly painful burn, like someone had spread hot sauce into his neck’s sinews. He ripped his talons out of his flesh, the macerated wound he’d created sealing shut in the blink of an eye.

“Damn it.” He hissed through clenched fangs, resigning to try and distract himself from the itch by digging his claws into the ground beneath him. Leaving deep gouges in the wood as his massive talons and hands drug downwards across the material. This day was making him regret the fact that his mortal mind hadn’t mustered up the brains, or the courage to sprint for the hills on that fateful night. Normally, he’d be able to sleep through the sun, and the birds, and the disgustingly cheerful attitude people obtain during the day. But the itch prevented that, too obnoxious to ignore for long, and too unknowable to try and solve.

He shifted his weight on top of the mildew ridden hay he was laying on; the side of his coat darkening as decades of stagnated mildew leaked into the fabric. Drifter pulled the shredded cloth tighter over his head, squeezing his eyelids shut as he tried to get comfortable despite the sunlight that singed him through the holes in the walls. Along with the overwhelming scent of pollen, the cramped shed reeked of fungus, the smell likely emerging from the streaks of blackness coating the wayward boards of the structure. Black mold was a smell that he should have been familiar with at this point, but he wasn’t. He hadn’t been familiar with anything lately, everything was...intense…heightened. Drifter had thought his senses had been sharp before, he remembered his first few months as a fledgling vampire, plugging his pointed ears with beeswax, and rubbing incense under his nose to block out the tantalizing scent of the blood pumping through the veins of the people around him. But now, his senses were amplified to a degree that was almost painful. He could catch wind of prey tens of miles away, hear the pounding of hearts amidst bustling crowds without strain or resistance, his night vision was incredible, seeing in the dark like a human sees in the light, he could even tell the difference in diet between humans when he tasted their blood, who ate what, and how much iron their life-fluid carried within its plasma.

But Drifter’s senses hadn’t been the only thing he’d seen a change in. He opened his eyes a hair, taking in the appearance of his crimson stained hands, as he continued to mutilate the wood with the iron like appendages. His claws were longer than usual, he’d learned this fact by accident when he’d tried to make a fist whilst in the midst of hunt. Coincidentally, that was also the same night he’d learned they’d gotten sharper. Ordinarily, such an accident would result in crescent moon shaped scabs that would persist on his palms for the next few minutes, but it didn’t. The incidentally deep wounds had closed in mere seconds, he hadn’t given it much thought in the moment, devoting his attention instead to the prey at hand. But now, weeks after, he had begun to realize how strange it had been. Additionally, his eyes picked up a new variation in his talons' colors, their usual grey hue now darkened to an inky black. Drifter ran his elongated tongue through the plains of his mouth, in the past week, he’d grown several new fangs, waking up in the middle of day to find that in sleep, he’d spat out the last few fragments of his human body. The molars, incisors, and wisdom teeth being replaced with fangs designed to tear, slice, and cut through the supple skin of his prey. Even his hair growth had changed, his greasy raven locks growing from his shoulders all the way down to his mid-back in the span of a month.

His pointed ears twitched, as a particularly delighted scream echoed across the plains. It was like a knife to his ear. Drifter shifted over abruptly, tossing and turning, yanking and pulling at his ratty cloth covering him, desperately searching for any semblance of relief from the overwhelming noises piercing his head.

Another gleeful squeal came from children frolicking around the field in front of his shed. The sound slicing through his ear drums. He clamped his massive hands over his ears, trying and failing to muffle the taunting noises of the prey he desperately wanted to catch, but wasn’t permitted to thanks to the unforgiving eye of the glaring sun. Drifter’s eyes blew wide open, the blood rushing through his veins making his eyes nearly bulge out of his head. A particularly small child stumbled, their knees crashing into a patch of rocks, and they wailed as a single bead of blood oozed from their knee.

The scent slammed into his sinuses, leaving him salivating, panting his steamy breath into the damp of the shack as he shook with the effort it took to resist charging outside into the day, and ripping into the prey with his fangs.

His entire body was in torment, his mind torn between the overwhelming task of trying to find the will to not sentence himself to death by bursting into the light to pursue the defenseless bundle of children who screeched and squeaked at their game of tag. The other half of him focusing on that damn ITCH.

His claws met skin without his permission, tearing through the twin scars placed over his jugular, wrenching muscles free, causing his head to go lopsided and sag against the floor and he severed arteries and tendons in search of relief.

Up in the kingdom, inside the castle walls, everything remained silent and sound asleep, except for the princess’s room.

Plump and a fellow ally of hers who came for a visit, Daniel Fortesque, were both still very awake, talking the nights away about their time together throughout the day. No,w Daniel, despite his known skeletal figure, now covered with human skin, a common magic to blend with one's world, but he was feeling uneasy.

Seeing him in the human body he once missed was…discomforting. He didn’t know why; he thought it was maybe he was used to being nothing but bones, who only spoke in mumbles and grunts, and his human body had now become unrecognizable to him.

But it was beyond that, wasn’t it?

Plump seemed to notice his uncomfortable tension, she went over and tapped his shoulder gently, “Are you alright, Daniel? I haven’t seen you this uncomfortable since the wars.”

Daniel didn’t even bother to look up. He sighed, placing his hands through his hair.

“Did something happen today? Was it something I did, dear?”

“No, Your Majesty! It wasn’t your doing.”

“Then what is wrong? You can tell me anything, right?”

Daniel opened his mouth, then shut it, staring down at his hand. There was silence for quite some time, increasing Plump’s concern, “Daniel?”

Daniel’s shoulders tensed up as he gripped the sheets tightly, staring towards the ground with eyes wide. A whole tornado of thoughts overwhelmed his head, all from the years before his death.

Oh, what a whole different character he was. A jerk who only followed for his own greed and needs. All those words, those looks, and all his actions came back to him as a train of his self-hate turned around to hit him once again.

Being reminded of how much of a coward he was, how he was not worthy of his title as a hero, was already enough for him to bear; this was far worse.

But he wasn’t that man anymore! He changed ever since he was first resurrected back in 1386!

Right…?

Voices then flooded his head even more than the memories, all hurting their own way.

“Who could like someone like you?”

“Ugh! You’ve clearly changed, and you’re even worse!”

“You really think you could escape the person you once were?”

“Please! You’re more monstrous now than you were as a spoiled jerk.”

Then all snapped away as he heard another voice, Plump’s voice.

“DANIEL!”

He didn’t notice how much he was sweating, looking over to see Plumps’ concerned expression, both of her hands on his shoulders, gripping tightly. He was breathing deeply and more quickly than he expected. His eyes burned; they burned from such overwhelm. Was he crying? He couldn’t quite tell.

But Plump could tell. Her expression softened as she moved closer, pulling him into an embrace. Daniel froze at such sudden action, but he didn’t push her away; he simply buried his head onto her shoulder and hugged her back, not realizing the tears spilling out of his eyes. Her hands rubbing his back in gentle motions as the sound of the night filled the room, giving comfort within the moment.

Both were silent until they pulled away, Plump placing a simple hand on his cheek before she asked, “Now… Something is definitely bothering you. I can tell, whatever it is, it’s causing you so much discomfort. Please… just tell me what’s going on…”

Daniel wasn’t sure of how to tell her, but it was better to tell her than hide it for a few more centuries, wasn’t it? He sighed, looking down at one of his hands again, gently responding, “Have you ever felt like… You hated to be the person you once were?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your past actions, your goals, your purposes, how others would remember you as a whole different person? Only to change and go back to those horrible times?”

Daniel continued, “Ever since the transporting magic to appearance became a thing for visits, and I don’t mean this in any bad way, your Majesty, but returning to human flesh just feels unwelcome to me…”

Plump listened on, trying to get Daniel’s point about his problem as he sat up slightly.

“I know we’ve been through three wars together, and both know each other by name and skill, but yet, there’s still the past where I was just… a greedy fool, only wanting fame and my father’s money, that I never had a goal that was worth a purpose before my death. And seeing me as this man again just…”

“It just hurts. To think I used to be that man, and still think I have his similarities. No matter how much I’ve changed, through centuries, through my time in the history of Gallowmere, just to be recalled to be a coward hurt enough, I don’t need another reason to be looked down upon.”

“It just makes me hate myself even more. What kind of knight am I to worry about my image more than my job…”

Plump’s soft expression was filled with empathy. Daniel had mentioned his dislike of being called a coward or a fake hero, but was this really what he thought of himself most of the time? All those times, did he really think he had no purpose in his entire existence?

Plump sighed sadly as she placed her hand on Daniel’s cheek, gently moving his head to look at her.

“I hear how much this is taking a toll on you, and I am so sorry this feels so heavy on you right now. But listen, you are worth more than you think you are. I may not get your pain, but I can try to understand. You’re far more braver and courageous than any other knight I’ve met.”

“I’m more than glad you’ve shared this with me. You realize not everything has to be carried on your shoulders, right? I’m here to take some of that off; the others are too! Daniel, we have fought alongside and against each other for years. You can come to us for anything that bothers you further. “

Plump then lay down on Daniel’s lap as she rubbed his cheek as she continued,

“Besides, I don’t care if some lame person decides to call you mean things; you are always a special someone to me. The most handsome, courageous, and heroic person that I’ve ever met.”

“You’re a very important person to me, Daniel. Seeing you talk about yourself this way pains me. I wish to help you out as you helped me. And I don’t want you to feel this way because some other person said so. I care about you, you know that, right?”

“And hey, if you still feel uncomfortable about being human, I can always come visit you or chat through our little letters!”

Daniel took in Plump’s words and gently smiled, wiping off the tears falling from his eyes. He grabbed Plump’s hands and leaned up against her face, causing a little chuckle from her.

“I really appreciate such words, ma tres chere amour.. Thank you..”

Plump chuckled once again, “Anything to see you smile again, meine süß cakeling.”

Plump kissed Daniel’s cheek and rubbed his hair as she climbed back on the bed, “Now come and go to sleep, you big doofus.”

Daniel paused, his face burning, all flustered from the kiss, but then back to the fact about sleeping on her bed, small... bed.

“But, I’m taller than the bed’s length. You don’t worry that I might-”

“All I care about is you getting the right amount of sleep for tomorrow. Now come on, I made you some room!”