Finn sat at the table like a man who'd shouted something he thought would be funny—only to be met with pure, deafening silence.
And now… he marinated in that silence.
Embarrassment. Shame. Regret. All slathered over him like cold gravy.
"Right…" the receptionist muttered awkwardly, not even trying to hide her secondhand discomfort.
Chestelle, in her eternal lack of boundaries, began gently caressing his thigh like she was comforting a traumatized war vet.
Finn moved her hand away out of discomfort.
Lickthorn looked heartbroken—though not out of empathy. Probably just something sick and deeply wrong bubbling up inside her like usual.
Even Majestria… pitying him?
Now that was a jump scare.
"You still need to meet the Incubus Midwife," she said flatly. "Only way to get the potion."
Every time Finn heard that cursed phrase, something inside him shriveled up and whimpered. He physically winced like she'd just slammed a car door on his future children.
