The moment she stepped through the door, I knew I'd made a mistake.
Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the wreckage of the royal bedchamber—blankets piled high like siege ramparts, pillows stacked into uneven walls, two chairs dragged in from the reading alcove to act as towers. My little fortress was complete, and I was proudly perched inside, wrapped in a robe and holding a wooden spoon like a scepter.
Then she spoke.
"This is childish."
I sat up straighter. "I was… experimenting with structural integrity."
"Unbefitting my husband," she added, stepping forward, heels clicking on marble.
I lowered the spoon. "I was bored."
"You're not a court jester."
"No, but court jesters don't have cuddle privileges with the queen."
She stared.
I shrank into the pillows.
"…Sorry."
There was a pause.
Then she picked up a pillow from the floor.
And without changing expression, she hurled it dead center into my face.
I yelped as it knocked me backward into the fort, toppling one side of the wall.
When I peeked over the top again, she was already climbing inside.
Her wings folded neatly, her silver braid draped over one shoulder, and her face still utterly unreadable.
"Reinforce the walls," she said, settling into a corner.
I blinked. "You're… joining me?"
She glanced sideways. "You've built a tactical weakness at the north flank."
I scrambled to pile cushions along the side. "Y-Yes, ma'am."
We spent the next few minutes adjusting the fort—her with military precision, me with frantic energy—until we had a stable structure that could at least withstand an imaginary siege.
Then it began.
First came her tail.
It slithered under the base of the blanket, curling slowly toward me.
I swatted at it.
It retreated.
Then it reappeared. Flicked my ankle. Pulled a cushion from under me.
"Saboteur," I hissed.
"I'm testing defenses," she replied calmly.
"You're enjoying this."
"No."
Another tail flick.
Another cushion stolen.
I lunged and caught it this time, holding tight. "Gotcha."
She stared at me without moving.
"Release my tail," she said softly.
"Make me."
She raised one brow. "Is that an order?"
"No," I said quickly, letting go.
She adjusted her position with exaggerated composure and crossed her arms. "Immature."
"You threw the first pillow!"
"I was asserting dominance."
I picked up a pillow and tossed it—gently—into her lap.
"Then assert this."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You dare."
"You're in the fort. There are no queens here. Only the Pillow Court."
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then lunged.
I didn't even have time to scream.
One moment I was smirking, the next I was flat on my back, her body pinning mine, wings flared behind her like a storm. Her knees straddled my hips, and her claws dug lightly into the cushions beside my head.
Her voice dropped.
"Surrender."
"I'll never—ack!"
Her tail struck again—under my robe, over my ribs, tickling with deadly precision. I writhed, gasping and laughing, trying to twist away.
"Mercy!" I wheezed.
"You mocked my dignity," she said calmly. "Now pay the price."
"You're smiling!"
"I am not."
"You are!"
She paused.
Then sat back on her heels.
Her face was blank.
Expressionless.
Perfectly composed.
"I am a monarch," she said. "I do not smile at fabric battles."
"You're definitely smiling."
"Your perception is flawed."
I grinned, heart still racing. "You're becoming more playful."
Her gaze flicked toward me. Something unreadable crossed her features.
Then she stood, brushing invisible lint from her gown. "We're done here."
My stomach dropped. "Vilo?"
She turned toward the window, back rigid. "Return the bed to order. I have reports to read."
I sat up, breath catching. "Wait—I didn't mean to insult you—"
But she was already walking away.
No reply. No glance. Just the faint rustle of her cape as she disappeared into the study.
I sat in the ruins of the pillow fort, heart thudding.
Did I push her too far?
I didn't mean to mock her. I was just… surprised. She had smiled. Not the cold smirk. Not the victorious grin. A real smile. Even if it barely lasted a second.
And I ruined it.
I sighed and began folding the blankets.
In the study, behind the closed door, Vilo leaned against her desk and pressed one claw to her temple.
Her cheeks were warm.
That wasn't supposed to happen.
It wasn't supposed to feel like that.
It had started as a correction. A show of authority. But the moment she'd stepped into the ridiculous pile of pillows, something in her chest loosened.
And when he threw that pillow back—gently, ridiculously—something tightened.
The warmth had crept in before she noticed.
The playfulness.
The laughter.
His laugh.
That sound.
It undid something.
She looked down at her claws, remembering the way his robe had bunched under her tail, how he'd squirmed when she tickled his ribs, how he'd looked up at her—grinning, breathless, trusting.
A warmth she didn't have a name for sat heavy in her chest.
"…Fool," she whispered.
Then, softer:
"…Mine."
She didn't return to the bedroom that night.
But the next morning, when you woke up groggy and still tangled in blankets, there was a note on your pillow.
In her handwriting.
Four words:
"Build it again tonight."