The question came out of nowhere.
No warning, no buildup. Just her usual commanding tone across the war table as she reviewed deployment routes and supply chains.
"How do humans flirt?" she asked.
I nearly dropped my goblet.
Vilo didn't look up. She stood across the chamber, tail swaying lazily behind her, one wing half-unfurled as she leaned over the maps with all the intensity of a battle-hardened general. Her golden eyes flicked to me once, sharp and expectant.
"…Flirt?" I repeated dumbly.
"Yes." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Courtship. Seduction. Mating rituals. Whatever your species calls it."
"Uh. That's a wide question."
She reached for a nearby scroll and unrolled it. "Then answer thoroughly."
"Why?"
"I'm married to you."
"You weren't interested before."
"I've decided to evaluate my options." Her tone remained flat, but her tail had begun to flick faster behind her, a sure sign of agitation. "Do not mistake my efficiency for disinterest. You are mine. If 'flirting' is a required task for this bond, I will execute it effectively."
"…That's the most romantic thing you've ever said."
She ignored me. Instead, she dipped a quill in her inkpot and poised it above the scroll like a general recording wartime tactics.
"Begin."
I hesitated. "Okay, well… humans usually flirt with compliments."
She wrote the word down.
"Like… saying someone looks good. That their eyes are pretty. Or that they smell nice."
Her head tilted. "So… observational praise."
"More or less."
She scribbled 'visual acknowledgment: eyes, scent, form' in her neat, aggressive handwriting.
"What else?"
"Touch," I said, warming up now. "Sometimes it's subtle. A brush of the hand. A hand on the shoulder. If it's more intimate—"
"I see," she interrupted. "Progressive physical escalation."
"…I guess, yeah."
She kept writing.
"And finally?"
"Eye contact," I said. "It's all about timing. Holding someone's gaze. Letting your face soften a little. Showing interest without words."
She stared directly at me.
Unblinking.
For ten straight seconds.
"…Like that," I muttered.
"Hmm."
She finished her note-taking and rolled the scroll with a sharp flick. Then she walked toward me with deliberate steps, stopping when she was just close enough that I had to tilt my head up to meet her gaze.
"If I push you against a wall," she said coolly, "and growl that you're beautiful—does that count?"
My breath hitched. "That's… intense, but yes."
She nodded. "Noted."
I didn't think about it again.
I should have.
The first incident happened during a council meeting.
One of the younger advisors—some wide-eyed noble from the lowlands—had dared to compliment the shine of Vilo's crown. I was seated beside her as usual, quietly observing. Vilo rose from her chair without a word, stalked over to me, grabbed my shoulders, and shoved me back against the wall behind her throne.
"You are beautiful," she growled, low and cold, breath tickling my ear.
Silence.
Utter silence.
Then she returned to her seat as if nothing had happened.
The room remained frozen.
Even the court mage looked like he'd just swallowed his tongue.
I turned redder than dragonfire.
"Did I do it wrong?" she asked without glancing up from her next report.
"No," I muttered.
She nodded. "Then I will continue practicing."
And she did.
Everywhere.
During dinner, when I passed her the wine goblet, she leaned across the table and whispered, "You smell… edible."
During drills, in full view of fifty soldiers, she pushed me against the archery post, grabbed my jaw, and declared, "You have admirable hip structure."
When I tried to argue that flirting was usually private, she dismissed me with a wave.
"My husband blushes too easily," she told her scribe. "It makes for excellent morale."
And the worst part?
It worked.
The castle staff started whispering. The guards exchanged bets. The handmaidens started mimicking her methods behind her back, clumsily attempting their own "intense flirts" on each other for practice. One poor servant nearly fainted when Vilo stared at her for a full minute just to test eye contact strength.
But she saved her real intensity for me.
One afternoon, I was reading by the window when she entered the room, tail already flicking with anticipation. She said nothing at first. Just walked over, took the book from my hands, placed it gently on the windowsill, and pushed me—firmly, gently—into the velvet cushions.
She straddled my lap, cold and composed, her long legs pressing into my thighs, her chest close enough to feel the heat of her skin through her robe.
"You are extremely fortunate," she whispered.
I swallowed hard. "That's… not quite flirting. That's just—"
"Silence."
She leaned in, lips close to my neck, breath slow and heated. "Thighs like yours should be illegal in my court."
I choked.
She pulled back, satisfied, and returned to her papers.
Later that night, she left a note on my pillow.
It read:
"Tomorrow: Eye contact drills. Shirtless. Do not be late."
I wasn't.