"Yes...?"
Callius's hand, which had been steadily working the carving knife, stopped abruptly.
I met his gaze without looking away.
"I've been curious about something for a while now."
"What... were you curious about?"
"We're both human, but we're so different."
I gestured alternately between his arm and mine.
My arms looked thin and soft at first glance, without any real definition. His, by contrast, were thick and sculpted, muscles visible even at rest—as though we belonged to entirely different species.
As I continued comparing his body to mine, Callius let out a low laugh and held out his arm.
"Feel free to touch."
I carefully placed my hand on his bare skin, his thick outer layers long since discarded. Warmth spread through my fingertips immediately.
Startled by the unexpected sensation, I blurted out:
"It's very hard."
That explained why it felt uncomfortable—almost rigid—when I'd leaned against his arm earlier. I'd assumed it was because his armor or clothing was particularly thick, but his arms themselves felt like iron plating.
"Is this a physical trait common to Ronheim's people?"
The only other man I'd ever seen unclothed had been Viscount Pelsus, and his body hadn't been remotely this solid. His chest and stomach had been round and sagging, his flesh as soft as mine.
But Ronheim's men looked as tough as golems carved from stone.
Perhaps this unusually strong, muscular physique was simply characteristic of northerners.
Callius shrugged.
"Northerners are indeed generally larger than southerners, but I've never considered whether our muscle structure might differ. I honestly don't know."
"I see..."
I traced my fingers delicately along his arm, from wrist to shoulder, marveling at the strength evident beneath the skin.
It was a remarkably powerful-looking arm.
I glanced down at my own slender limbs and felt a pang of psychological inadequacy, my shoulders slumping.
"I wish I could be like you, Callius."
"Like me...?"
As though struck by sudden inspiration, Callius pulled a piece of parchment from the nightstand drawer and sketched something with a quill.
A few long lines were added to a rough circle, creating lumpy, exaggerated limbs.
"Is this what you want to look like?"
I took the parchment he offered and stared in disbelief.
It was such a bizarre drawing that no person with even the slightest sense of artistry could possibly appreciate it.
"Is this really supposed to be me?"
"Don't they look similar?"
"Not even remotely!"
"They're the same. If you had a body like mine, this is exactly what you'd look like."
"Absolutely not! They're not the same at all!"
"Look in a mirror. This is what you resemble."
"I have scraggly hair and sharp, beady eyes like this?"
Indignation flared. I snatched the quill from his hand and drew my own crude figure—a rough circle for a head, straight lines for a body, creating a stick-thin figure just as he had done.
"If I resemble that drawing, then you resemble this one."
Callius extended the legs on my sketch.
"You should make it a bit taller than yours, though. I'm taller than you."
"Taller? That's ridiculous."
I cut the legs he'd drawn in half and marked a large X over them.
"It's probably more like this."
"The difference is far greater than that."
"I don't think so. Should we measure?"
And so we ended up comparing the lengths of our legs on the bed, which quickly escalated into mock indignation, then playful retaliation.
"Ahaha! That tickles!"
"You started it first, didn't you?"
"Are you really using brute force right now?!"
"All's fair in battle. Don't you know who holds the advantage of strength here?"
"Wait! Wait! Ahaha! It tickles too much!"
Laughter filled the bedroom as we tumbled across the sheets in a thoroughly undignified—and utterly delightful—wrestling match.
After playing around for some time, I collapsed onto the bed, completely exhausted.
The only sound in the room was my own labored breathing.
Lamia's words—that spending the night with someone you loved was a very happy and enjoyable experience—had turned out to be correct, though perhaps not in the way she'd intended.
'I don't know about love, though...'
I mentally denied the implication, shrugging it off.
Regardless, I felt wonderfully cheerful right now.
Callius shifted toward me, propping himself on one arm, and spoke softly.
"Chloe."
His voice fell over me like a warm blanket, accompanied by the crackling of firewood in the hearth.
I looked at him, feeling thoroughly content.
"Yes, Callius?"
"Are there any inconveniences to living in Ronheim?"
I shook my head immediately.
"No. Everyone here has been kind."
"Do you still feel that way, even though some people are suspicious and wary of you?"
"It's only because they want to protect you and Ronheim."
I answered while gently smoothing the blanket near the fireplace with my hand. The side directly exposed to the flames was much warmer than the other.
"Besides, even though they suspect and watch me, no one has done anything truly unkind."
Nothing like locking me in my bedroom for days on end. Nothing like withholding meals or serving me cold, spoiled food.
Having endured so much of that sort of treatment before, I was genuinely satisfied with the honesty of the staff and knights here—people who kept a watchful eye on me but never acted with cruelty.
Callius asked cautiously:
"Have you... been subjected to unkind treatment before?"
I smiled bitterly, thinking to myself:
'So many times I can't even count them all.'
Callius couldn't have heard my internal response, yet he found my hand beneath the blanket and held it gently.
His hands were far warmer than any blanket heated by a fireplace.
"..."
I didn't understand why I became such a crybaby when I was with him.
I took a deep breath, forcing back the tears that threatened to fall.
"I have one more question."
"Ask."
"Why are you so kind to me?"
I had been lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, but now I turned to face him.
We lay close together, our faces only inches apart.
Being this near to him felt incredibly comfortable and natural—so different from the first time we'd shared a bed.
"I don't understand why you treat me with such kindness."
Callius smiled gently.
"Because I made a promise."
"A promise?"
What could he mean?
When I looked at him with wide, questioning eyes, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
The spot where his fingers brushed tingled pleasantly.
"I made a promise with a childhood friend. We parted ways a long time ago."
His hand lingered near my cheek, warm and steady.
"We promised each other that even if we never saw one another again, we would never forget each other. That we'd continue our friendship, at least in our hearts. That we'd trust and support each other, no matter where or how we might meet again."
"...That's romantic."
His words stirred something vague within me. I searched my memory and pulled forth a hazy recollection from childhood.
"I think everyone makes promises like that when they're young. I remember making a similar one myself."
Callius's smile deepened, reaching his eyes.
"Is that so?"
"Yes. But what does that have to do with being kind to me?"
Callius let out a low, quiet laugh, as though amused by some private joke.
"...?"
I looked at him in confusion, and he offered an enigmatic answer:
"You remind me of my friend."
"Really? That's remarkable. My friend resembled you, and your friend resembles me."
"Yes, it's quite amusing. That's why I'm... a little confused sometimes."
"Confused about what?"
Callius didn't answer that question.
He simply shook his head, as though uncertain himself.
'What does he mean?'
I brushed it aside as unimportant and continued asking questions.
"Does your friend remember the promise you made when you were young, the way you do?"
"Probably not."
"How can you be so sure?"
"We met again by chance..."
"Oh! How wonderful that you could meet again!"
I let out an involuntary gasp of delight, captivated by the romantic notion. But Callius looked at me with a wistful smile.
"They didn't remember me. It was as though they'd forgotten me entirely."
"Ah..."
Disappointment washed over me. The story hadn't unfolded the way I'd hoped.
I didn't want his beautiful childhood promise to end so emptily, so I offered an alternative:
"Could it be that you misunderstood? Perhaps they do remember, but circumstances prevented them from acknowledging you."
"I wish that were true."
But there was no trace of hope in Callius's expression as he spoke.
He seemed entirely certain there had been no misunderstanding.
Callius pulled the blanket higher, tucking it snugly around me.
"It's getting very late. If we sleep in tomorrow, people will enjoy imagining what happened tonight."
"...!"
Why did Lamia's mischievous laughter immediately flash through my mind at his words?
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to fall asleep quickly.
"Let's go to sleep."
Callius straightened and settled beside me.
I thought he would drift off immediately, but instead he whispered:
"Good night, Chloe."
It was an unfamiliar, tender greeting—one that made my heart flutter strangely.
I wanted to return the sentiment, but somehow shyness prevented me from opening my mouth.
I barely managed to answer in a trembling whisper:
"You too, Callius..."
In the firelit dark, two hearts rested close—one remembering everything,the other remembering nothing,yet both held by the same forgotten promise.
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