Caring

It had been quiet lately.

The palace was at peace. No wars. No traitors. No assassination attempts. Vilo had already crushed the last resistance in the west and installed her new governors. The world outside had finally learned what I'd known for a long time:

No one could stand against her.

And yet… I still wondered if I should be by her side.

She was a dragon queen—undefeated, unmatched, unchallenged.

And I was… just me.

I brought her tea.

I fluffed her pillows.

I cuddled close to her in bed when she asked—and never unless she asked.

So one evening, while we were curled up on the couch in her private chamber, her wing draped lazily over us like a blanket, I asked the question that had been gnawing at my chest.

"…Am I too weak for you?"

She blinked.

Slowly turned her head to look at me.

I tried to explain before she could react.

"I mean—I know I can't fight. I can't use magic. I'm not powerful. Not like your generals or your advisors. I can't even protect myself half the time. It's just… I worry that maybe I'm—"

"Stop."

Her voice wasn't loud.

But it cut through me.

She sat up, pulling away from me slightly, her expression stony.

"Never say that again."

I looked down, heart sinking. "I just thought maybe—"

"No," she said sharply. "You're not weak."

"But I—"

"You are not weak."

She stood and paced in front of the fireplace, her voice rising just enough to shake the air.

"Strength isn't just firepower. It's not lifting a sword or burning down a city."

She turned to me, eyes burning—not with anger, but with something fiercer. Protectiveness.

"You're loyal. Honest. Brave enough to challenge me when no one else dares. Smart enough to calm my fury. Kind enough to make me feel safe when I never thought I could."

Her voice softened just a little.

"You hold me when I don't know how to ask. You make me laugh. You make me want to come back to this room after crushing nations."

She stepped forward, crouched in front of me, and touched my chest with one clawed finger.

"You are not weak," she said, quieter now. "You are mine. And there is nothing stronger than the one I choose to stand beside."

I felt tears threaten the corners of my eyes.

She noticed.

And pulled me into her arms.

Her embrace wasn't gentle this time—it was fierce. Possessive. Protective.

"You don't ever get to doubt that again," she whispered.

And in her arms, I didn't.

Not anymore.

Today had been brutal.

Reports from the eastern provinces. A logistical dispute in the underworld market. Two nobles who couldn't stop challenging each other over border titles—and somehow, I was in the middle of all of it. From dawn until dusk, I'd moved nonstop. Cleaning, organizing, correcting paperwork, intercepting squabbling staff before they could drag her into drama.

But I didn't complain.

I never did.

That was part of what she liked about me.

Still, by the time I was back in the throne room, I felt like I could drop dead on the polished floor.

Vilo, seated in her throne with one leg crossed over the other, watched me with that silent, knowing stare of hers.

"You've been working too hard," she said finally.

I bowed my head. "It's my job."

"And," she added coolly, "you've been staring at my thighs again."

My soul left my body for half a second.

"I—I wasn't trying to—"

"Come here."

I blinked. "Huh?"

"Come here," she repeated. "Now."

I stepped forward hesitantly.

"Down," she ordered, patting her thigh.

I stared blankly.

"Lay your head on my lap."

I froze. "What?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"Are you going to question me, or are you going to obey?"

I swallowed and did as I was told.

My head came to rest gently on her upper thighs—soft, firm, warm. I hadn't realized how good they would feel against me until I was there, listening to the faint sound of her breathing and the slight rustle of her robes.

She said nothing at first.

Then, her fingers began to gently stroke my hair—slow, smooth motions that made my heart calm in ways I didn't expect.

"Is it comfortable?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered quietly.

She kept running her claws lightly through my hair.

"I don't reward you often," she said. "Not the way you'd like. You work hard. You serve without complaint. You ask for so little."

I didn't say anything.

I didn't need to.

"You're probably wondering why I'm doing this."

"…A little," I admitted.

Her hand paused.

Then resumed.

"Because I want to," she said simply.

And that was it.

No great reason. No ceremony. No logic.

She just wanted me to feel good.

And as I lay there on her lap—breathing softly, heart slowing for the first time all day—I realized something:

She was finally letting herself care.

Openly.

Quietly.

Gently.

And I liked it.

A lot.