One HP extra

—Arman—

The door burst open with a crash. 

Before he could react—before he could even think—something warm and solid collided with him. The impact drove him back into the mattress, his ribs protesting as the air fled his lungs in a grunt. 

Damp fur. The scent of lavender soap. A tangle of limbs pressing against him. 

And then—golden eyes, wide with shock, staring down at him from mere inches away. 

Kyra.

She froze. 

He froze. 

For one endless heartbeat, the world narrowed to two undeniable truths: 

1. She was wearing nothing but a towel. 

2. It was not doing its job. 

The thin fabric clung to her curves, barely covering what mattered, and as she braced her hands against his chest—too close, too warm—he felt the heat of her skin through his shirt. Water droplets still glistened on her collarbone, trailing down to the swell of— 

Nope. Don't look down.

(He looked down.) 

The towel had slipped dangerously low, revealing the soft, pale swell of her breasts, the pink peaks stiffened from the chill of the air— 

Oh gods.

His throat went dry. 

Kyra's breath hitched. 

Then her ears shot straight up, her tail bristling like an angry fox caught in a trap. 

"You—you weren't supposed to be awake!"she hissed, her voice a strangled whisper. 

Arman's brain short-circuited. "I—uh—"

She tried to push herself up, but her knee slipped against the sheets. Instinctively, his hands shot to her waist—bare skin, smooth and warm beneath his fingers—and for one disastrous second, he felt the dip of her hips, the softness of her stomach, the way her breath shuddered at his touch. 

Then the towel gave up entirely. 

It slid. 

It fell. 

And suddenly, there was nothing between them but air and the pounding of his own pulse. 

Kyra went statue-still. 

Arman tried not to look. 

(He failed spectacularly.) 

Her body was lean but softly curved, her skin flushed from the heat of the bath. The gentle flare of her hips led down to toned thighs, the faintest dusting of fur trailing lower— 

Nope. Not going there.

He wrenched his gaze back up—only to find her staring at him, her golden eyes burning with mortification. 

"...Are you *looking?" she whispered, voice trembling. 

"No," he lied, voice rough. 

"You are—!"

Chaos erupted. She snatched the blanket from the bed, twisting herself into it with a furious spin, before diving behind the chair like a soldier retreating from battle. Arman collapsed back onto the mattress, throwing an arm over his face. His heart hammered against his ribs, his skin still burning where she'd touched him. 

From behind the chair came a string of muffled curses—some in languages he didn't recognize, but the tone was viciously clear. 

"I said don't look!"

"I didn't!"

"You blushed!"

"That was lack of oxygen!"

A pillow smacked him in the face. 

Silence. Then, in a voice so small it nearly shattered him: 

"...Did you see everything?"

Arman swallowed. "...Define everything."

Another pillow. Harder. 

"My lord?"

Arman's head snapped toward the door.

Mira.

The head maid stood frozen in the doorway, a tray of medicinal tea in her hands. Her eyes flicked between Kyra (half-naked, mid-scramble), Arman (shirtless, on the bed staring at kyra), and the discarded towel on the floor.

A beat of silence.

Then Mira sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Of course."

Kyra made a noise like a teakettle exploding and yanked the towel off the floor over herself.

Arman sat up too fast, ribs protesting. "Mira, this isn't—"

"I suppose I should be grateful you're at least conscious for your usual antics this time,"Mira said dryly, setting the tray down with a thunk. "Though I'd hoped the near-death experience might've inspired some restraint."

"It's not like that!" Kyra squeaked from her blanket fortress.

Mira arched a brow. "The young master has a history of these… misunderstandings."

Arman groaned. Damn this villain's trash reputation.

"I didn't even do anything!"

"That's what you said last time," Mira deadpanned. "And the time before that. And the time with the duchess's—"

"We know," Kyra and Arman said in unison.

Another pause. Mira crossed her arms. "So. Should I prepare the 'apology gifts' again, or…?"

Kyra's ears flattened. "I'm going to murder him."

Arman threw his hands up. "I caught her so she wouldn't faceplant into the floor! That's literallyit!"

Mira gave him a look so full of I've heard this before that it could've curdled milk. "You dorealize you're still holding her hip, yes?"

Arman looked down.

Kyra looked down.

His hand was, in fact, still resting on her bare skin.

"Oh," he said.

"Oh," Kyra echoed.

He yanked his hand back like he'd been burned.

Mira sighed. "I'll just… add this to the list of incidents." She turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and young master?"

"Yes?"

"If your going to put the moves on someone, could you at least wait until after your stitches heal?"

The door clicked shut.

Kyra slowly turned to glare at him. "...You have a LIST?"

Arman collapsed back onto the bed, covering his face. 

Silence ensued for a little when Finally, Arman broke it with a half-choked cough. "Okay. So. That happened."

"No," she muttered, voice muffled. "That did not happen. We're going to pretend that didn't happen."

"Sure. You crashed into me naked and tackled me onto a bed, but yes, let's pretend."

"I will kill you."

He held up his hands in mock surrender, ignoring the pain that spiked up his side. "I didn't even see anything."

"…You definitely saw something."

"Maybe a little skin… but nothing else, I was panicking"

"You're impossible."

"You're the one who kicked the door open like a war god."

Another beat of silence.

Then—unexpectedly—Kyra laughed.

It was small. Tired. But real. And for a moment, the tension eased.

She peeked over the edge of the chair, her golden eyes narrowing. "Are you always this much of a disaster?"

"Only on weekdays."

She shook her head, but a reluctant smile tugged at the edge of her mouth. "You're lucky you're still injured."

He exhaled slowly. "Lucky's one word for it."

Now that the chaos was fading, the room's reality returned.

Dim lantern light. A worn wooden floor. Bandages across his chest and arm. An empty potion vial on the table beside him. And Kyra—damp, exhausted, but alive.

And close.

Too close, maybe. And yet… not close enough.

He looked down at the bedsheets pooled in his lap. "So… I take it Mira's the one who patched me up?"

Kyra nodded, easing a little farther out from her hiding spot. "She used all the healing potions she had. Said you were bleeding out. That your body wasn't supposed to move like that."

"It wasn't."

"You should be dead."

"Wasn't the first time I heard that," he murmured.

Kyra stared at him. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do this?" Her voice dropped, the earlier embarrassment gone. "Why risk everything? You didn't know me. You didn't have to save me. You could've died."

Arman was quiet for a long moment.

Then he leaned back, letting his head thud softly against the wall behind the bed.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe I was just… tired of watching bad people win."

Kyra's ears twitched.

"That's all?"

He glanced at her. "And maybe… maybe I saw someone who looked like they deserved a second chance."

She blinked.

Then turned her gaze to the floor.

"I've never had a first one," she whispered.

Neither of them spoke for a while after that.

Eventually, Kyra stood and padded over to the bed, still wrapped in the blanket. She sat beside him carefully, her tail brushing his leg as she settled in.

"I'll get better," she said softly. "Stronger. So no one has to do that again."

He gave a tired smirk. "Good. Because next time I might actually die."

Her gaze flicked to his face.

Then, without warning, she leaned against his shoulder.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

He didn't move.

Didn't push her away.

And for a while, they sat in silence—exhausted, broken, healing. Together.