Erza sat on the sofa like it was a throne.
Which, to be fair, she probably thought it was. The cushions were soft—softer than her actual throne back in Atlantis, if she was being honest—but she would never admit that out loud. A queen did not compliment furniture. Furniture existed to serve her, not the other way around.
She crossed her legs. Leaned back. Let her posture radiate absolute authority.
The apartment was hers now. The mortal was hers now. Everything in this strange, cramped world existed at her pleasure.
She picked up a book from the coffee table—some human thing about philosophy she'd never heard of—and began to read.
Her speed was impressive. Almost inhuman. Pages turned every few seconds, her violet eye scanning lines like a machine processing data. She absorbed information the way others absorbed oxygen.
Interesting. These humans have interesting ideas. Wrong, mostly. But interesting.
---
Across the room, Yuuta sat on the floor.
Elena was beside him, using one of his old textbooks as a drawing pad. Her tiny hands gripped a pencil with intense concentration, tongue poking out slightly as she sketched... something. He couldn't tell what. It looked like a combination of stick figures and abstract shapes.
But she was happy. That was clear.
He couldn't meet Erza's eye.
Every time he glanced in her direction, that cold violet gaze seemed to pierce through him. Judging him. Measuring him. Reminding him that his life had an expiration date.
I want to run away.
The thought pulsed in his mind like a second heartbeat.
I want to open the door and just... leave. Disappear. Never come back.
But he couldn't.
Because if he ran, she would find him. And when she found him—not if, when—she would kill him. No year-long reprieve. No chance to graduate. Just ice and death and nothing.
So he sat.
And watched his daughter draw.
And tried not to think about the woman on his sofa.
---
The sunlight shifted.
A beam of gold broke through the window, cutting across the room and landing directly on Erza's face.
She blinked. Looked up. Her expression shifted—just slightly—with surprise.
"Oh." The word was quiet. Almost soft. "It is morning already."
Yuuta followed her gaze to the window.
To the sunlight streaming through.
To the dust motes dancing in the golden beam.
Morning.
He'd been here all night. Trapped. Terrified. Alive.
The sunlight proved it. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a hallucination. This was real—as real as the fear in his chest, as real as the child beside him, as real as the queen on his sofa.
A dragon queen.
In his apartment.
For real.
His soul tried to leave his body again. He forced it back.
---
Erza's gaze shifted from the window to the kitchen.
Then to Yuuta.
"You told me you are a chef." Her voice was cold. Commanding. A statement, not a question.
Yuuta straightened. Tried to look more confident than he felt.
"Yes, Your Highness." He swallowed. "I am a trainee chef. But I can cook better food than most, I believe."
Erza's eye narrowed. Considering.
"Very well." She leaned back. Crossed her legs again. "If you satisfy me with your cooking, I will fulfill any wish you have."
---
Yuuta's heart stopped.
Then started again—faster, harder, hopeful.
Any wish.
The words echoed in his mind like music. Any wish. ANY wish. He could ask for anything—freedom, safety, a way out of this nightmare—
"I can ask for—"
"However."
The word dropped like an anvil.
Yuuta's hope froze mid-flight.
Erza smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of a predator who enjoyed watching prey squirm.
"You cannot ask for freedom. You cannot ask for your life to be spared. You cannot ask for anything impossible. And I will not do anything that drains my energy."
She tilted her head. Violet eye gleaming.
"Those are the rules."
---
Yuuta's face went blank.
His hope—that bright, beautiful, desperate hope—shattered into a thousand pieces. Fell through his chest and disappeared into nothing.
What kind of wish is that?
He couldn't ask for freedom. Couldn't ask to live. Couldn't ask for anything too big. Couldn't ask for anything that required effort.
That wasn't a wish. That was a game. A truth-or-dare where she only picked the options that cost her nothing.
His shoulders sagged. His head dropped.
Of course. Of course she'd do this. Why would anything be easy?
---
Then—
An idea.
Small. Fragile. But there.
He raised his head slowly. Looked at her. At this impossible woman who held his life in her hands.
If I can't ask for big things... I'll ask for small things. Small things that add up. Small things that matter.
He bowed. Pressed his forehead to the floor.
"Very well, Your Majesty." His voice was steady. Respectful. "I shall make you food to satisfy your hunger."
Erza's eye flickered. Surprise? Curiosity? He couldn't tell.
"Very well." She picked up her book again. "I will be waiting."
---
Yuuta paused.
Looked at her one more time. At the queen on his sofa, reading his philosophy book like it was a royal decree.
Then he stood. Turned. Walked toward the kitchen.
Behind him, small footsteps pattered.
Elena. Giggling. Bouncing.
"Papa is going to cook! Yeah, yeah!" She jumped with every word, her little wings fluttering uselessly. "Elena helps! Elena helps!"
Yuuta looked down at her.
At those red eyes. That silver hair. That tiny, trusting face.
And despite everything—despite the fear, the confusion, the impossible situation—he felt something warm spread through his chest.
"Okay, little angel." He ruffled her hair. "You can help."
Elena cheered.
Behind them, Erza watched over the edge of her book.
Her expression didn't change.
But something in her eye softened. Just slightly. Just for a moment.
Then she looked away.
Yuuta stood in the kitchen.
His kitchen. His domain. The one place in this apartment where he actually knew what he was doing.
And yet his hands trembled slightly as he opened the refrigerator.
A wish.
The thought pulsed in his mind like a second heartbeat. She'd promised. If he satisfied her, she would fulfill any wish—within her ridiculous, impossible rules.
He couldn't ask for freedom. Couldn't ask to live. Couldn't ask for anything big or draining or useful.
But maybe—just maybe—he could ask for something small. Something that mattered. Something that would make this year of borrowed time a little more bearable.
He shook his head. Focused on the task at hand.
First, cook. Then think. Then wish.
---
The refrigerator hummed quietly as he scanned its contents.
Prawns. A bag of them, still half-frozen from when he'd bought them for college tiffin. Bread dough, resting in a bowl, waiting to become dinner rolls he'd never gotten around to baking.
He'd planned for a normal week. Classes. Studying. Maybe some instant noodles when he got lazy.
He hadn't planned for a wife and daughter to appear out of nowhere.
Creamy Prawn Bisque.
The idea surfaced fully formed. Rich. Elegant. Perfect for someone like her—someone royal, someone who'd probably eaten the finest foods in her kingdom for centuries.
Soupe de Crevette.
The French name escaped his lips before he could stop it. "Creamy Prawn Bisque... Soupe de Crevette."
---
Elena's eyes went wide.
Standing on her tiptoes beside him, she stared up at her father like he'd just spoken an ancient spell.
"Sss... soop... soop deh..."
Her tongue twisted. The words came out wrong. She tried again.
"Soop deh creh... creh..."
She failed. Miserably.
Yuuta looked down at her.
At her concentrated face. Her scrunched nose. The way her little brows furrowed with the effort of pronouncing something clearly beyond her years.
He smiled.
She's exactly like me.
The thought came out of nowhere. Warm. Unexpected. True.
He reached down and ruffled her silver hair.
"Let's make Soupe de Crevette, little angel."
Elena beamed.
---
Yuuta worked.
First, the prawns. His knife slid through the shells with practiced precision—quick cuts, clean movements, years of training showing in every motion.
Shells went into one bowl. Meat into another.
Elena watched.
Her red eyes followed every movement with intense focus. She stood on her tiptoes, straining to see the counter, to understand the strange ritual her father was performing.
To her, this was magic. Transformation. Raw things becoming something else through mysterious processes she couldn't comprehend.
Yuuta glanced at her.
At those wide eyes. That open mouth. The pure, unfiltered excitement radiating from her tiny frame.
His heart clenched.
Too cute. This is too cute. I can't handle this.
"Hey." His voice came out softer than he intended. "Do you want to hold a prawn?"
He held one out. Pink. Raw. Slightly cold from the refrigerator.
Elena's eyes somehow got wider.
"Sure, Papa! Elena wants to see!"
Her tiny hand reached out. Took the prawn carefully. Brought it close to her face for examination.
Yuuta watched, smiling.
She looked so serious. So scientific. Like a tiny researcher studying an alien specimen.
Her mouth opened.
---
Yuuta froze.
No.
No way.
She wouldn't—
She did.
Elena shoved the entire prawn into her mouth. Chewed once. Twice. Swallowed.
Yuuta's brain stopped working.
"SPIT IT OUT!" His voice came out strangled. "SPIT IT OUT RIGHT NOW! YOU CAN'T EAT RAW!"
Elena blinked up at him. Innocent. Confused.
"But Papa... it's yummy." She smacked her little lips. "Elena wants more!"
Her hand reached for the bowl of prawns.
Yuuta grabbed it. Lifted it high above his head. Out of reach.
"NO! You can't eat raw! Stop shoving things in your mouth!"
She's a dragon. I forgot. She's literally a dragon. Raw meat is probably fine for her. She didn't even flinch.
Elena's cheeks puffed out.
Her arms crossed over her chest. Her little wings flapped angrily behind her. Her tail twitched with indignation.
"Papa is RUDE to Elena!"
The pout was magnificent. The pose was perfect.
She looks exactly like her mother.
Yuuta sighed. Deeply. From the bottom of his soul.
"Just... just wait, okay? Papa will cook them. They'll taste even better. I promise."
Elena considered this.
Her pout slowly faded. Replaced by cautious hope.
"Better than raw?"
"Much better."
"...Okay, Papa."
---
Yuuta turned back to his work.
Elena settled beside him, watching again—but this time, she kept her hands firmly at her sides.
He chopped onions. Fine dice, almost translucent. Garlic, minced to a paste. He heated butter in a pot—real butter, none of that margarine nonsense—and watched it foam.
The shells went in next. Sauteed until they turned pink and fragrant. The smell filled the kitchen—ocean and butter and something deeper.
Elena's nose twitched.
"Smells good, Papa."
"Just wait."
He added tomato paste. Stirred until it darkened. Then white wine—a splash, just enough to deglaze the pan. The alcohol burned off immediately, leaving only depth behind.
Water. Cream. A bay leaf. Thyme.
Simmer.
Elena watched the pot bubble. Watched the liquid transform from clear to golden to rich, creamy orange.
"Papa makes magic," she whispered.
Yuuta smiled. Didn't correct her.
---
Twenty minutes later, he strained the soup.
The shells went into the trash. The liquid went back into the pot. He added the prawn meat—chopped, waiting, ready—and let it warm through.
A final taste. A pinch of salt. A swirl of extra cream.
Done.
Yuuta ladled the bisque into a bowl. Garnished with parsley. Placed it on a tray.
Then he looked down at Elena.
She was staring at the bowl with absolute reverence. Like it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.
"Papa," she whispered. "That's... that's so pretty."
Yuuta's heart melted for the third time that morning.
"Wait until you taste it, little angel."
While the soup rested, Yuuta worked on the bread.
The dough had risen overnight—puffy and soft, ready to become something beautiful. He punched it down, divided it into portions, shaped each loaf with practiced hands.
One batch stayed plain. Simple. Classic.
The other got treatment—garlic butter folded in, herbs sprinkled on top, a final brush of egg wash for that golden crust.
The smell when they went into the oven was ridiculous.
Elena pressed her face against the oven door, watching through the glass like it was a window into another world. Her little nose twitched with every wave of aroma that escaped.
"Papa..." Her voice was dreamy. "It smells so good. Elena has never smelled anything like this."
Yuuta smiled. "Just wait until they're done."
---
Twenty minutes later, the bread emerged.
Golden. Crisp. Perfect.
The garlic loaves were something else entirely—the smell filled the entire apartment, rich and savory and absolutely irresistible.
Elena's self-control was crumbling.
She'd already somehow gotten cream on her fingers—no one saw how, but the evidence was there—and now she was staring at the bread like a starving wolf.
Yuuta wiped his hands. Looked at the spread.
Soup. Bread. Plates. Bowls. Water. Juice—pomegranate and grape, his favorites.
Time to face the queen.
---
He arranged everything on the small table in the corner of the hall. It wasn't much—just a low table where he usually ate alone, watching videos on his phone. But it would have to do.
Elena hopped down from her chair and followed him, still licking cream from her fingers.
"Elena helps, Papa!"
"Just... don't eat anything yet, okay?"
Elena's face scrunched with confusion. "Why? Food is there. Elena is hungry."
Yuuta knelt beside her. Took a breath.
How do you explain table manners to a four-year-old dragon child?
"It's not good to eat alone," he said gently. "When family is together, you wait for everyone. You eat together."
Elena tilted her head. "Why?"
Yuuta smiled. "Because it makes the food a hundred times tastier."
Elena's eyes went wide.
"Really?!"
The innocence in her voice was almost too much. Like he'd just revealed a divine secret. Like she would believe anything he said, no matter how absurd.
"Really," he confirmed.
Elena nodded seriously. "Then Elena waits."
Yuuta's heart melted again.
---
He straightened. Looked toward the living room.
Erza was still on the sofa. Still reading. She'd gone through almost everything on his shelf—manga, history books, geography texts, even that weird trivia book he'd bought once at a flea market.
She was a walking cheat code at this point. Probably knew more about Earth than he did.
Okay. Time to do this.
He walked toward her.
Every step felt heavy. Like walking toward an execution. Like a soldier bringing bad news to an already-angry king.
He stopped a respectful distance away. Bowed.
"Your Majesty." His voice was quiet. Careful. "I have prepared food that will satisfy you."
No response.
Erza's eye never left the page. Her finger traced lines at inhuman speed, absorbing information like a sponge.
Yuuta waited.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
---
Finally—
Erza closed the book.
She stretched. Yawned. Rolled her shoulders like someone who'd just completed a marathon.
Then she stood. Looked down at him.
"Lead me. Where is the food?"
Yuuta exhaled internally.
"Yes, Your Highness."
---
He led her to the table.
To the spread he'd arranged. The soup steaming gently. The bread arranged in neat rows. The juice gleaming in its pitcher.
Erza settled onto a pillow. Crossed her legs. Looked at the food with the same expression she probably used to inspect royal chefs.
"So." Her voice was cold. Regal. "What did you make?"
Yuuta straightened. This was his moment. His domain.
"This is Creamy Prawn Bisque." He gestured to the soup. "Soupe de Crevette. A French dish, traditionally served as a starter. I've adapted it slightly—lighter cream, more herbs, to balance the richness."
He moved to the bread.
"Plain loaf. And garlic herb loaf. Fresh baked. The garlic one has parsley and a touch of sea salt on the crust."
He paused. Took a breath.
"The bisque is made by simmering prawn shells to extract maximum flavor, then straining and finishing with cream and the chopped meat. It should be smooth, rich, and deeply savory."
---
Erza listened.
Her expression didn't change. Cold. Impassive. Impossible to read.
When he finished, she simply nodded.
"I see."
Then—
He lifted the lid from the soup container.
---
The aroma escaped like a prisoner set free.
Rich. Creamy. Complex. The scent of the ocean mixed with butter and herbs and something deeper—something that wrapped around you and demanded attention.
It spread through the room. Filled every corner. Belonged there.
Erza's nose twitched.
Her eye widened—just slightly. Just for a moment.
Yuuta caught it. The flicker of surprise. The involuntary reaction.
She hadn't expected this. Hadn't expected him to produce something like this.
But the moment passed.
Her face returned to cold neutrality. Impassive. Unreadable.
She looked at the soup. At the bread. At the mortal who'd made them.
Then, quietly:
"I will taste it now."
---
TO BE CONTINUED
---