"Mr. Arman, I've tidied your room. And here are your cleaned knight’s uniform."

"Hmm. Just leave it there."

"Understood."

Evelia neatly placed Arman’s work attire beside his desk. Seeing him fall silent, she quietly stood beside him without a word.

...

...

Neither met the other’s eyes, nor made any move. Arman kept his head down, signing trivial documents that required his signature. Evelia, meanwhile, stared openly at him—unblinking, unashamed.

...

...

Another stretch of silence. Evelia never initiated conversation. Arman deliberately turned his head slightly, offering only the back of his skull.

...

But her gaze felt like it could drill straight through bone. Arman scratched his head restlessly.

It was like someone focusing sunlight onto his scalp with a magnifying glass…

"Eve… is there something else?"

Arman finally surrendered. After a deep breath and a quick compose of his tone, he turned to face her—still locked in her stare.

"No, Mr. Arman," Evelia replied, shaking her head. Yet her eyes never left him.

"...Eve…" Arman sighed, capping his pen. "What exactly are you trying to do?"

"I’m fine, Mr. Arman." Her eyes held a trace of innocence.

"Then… please stop staring at me *here*."

"Ah—yes."

Obediently, she looked away.

But she didn’t move an inch from his side.

"Haah…" Arman rubbed his temple, watching the girl who’d truly stopped staring. Now *he* was the one looking.

Ever since the old butler’s words, Arman had buried that feeling deep—too deep to even glance at. To keep any budding emotion in check, he kept slight distance and stationed tight-lipped watchers around her. He hadn’t approached her directly, yet knew every step she took.

According to reports: no contact with outsiders, no trespassing forbidden zones. Just a quiet little maid who spent most time in the manor kitchen. Never touched main ingredients—only stood by her small stove, studying recipes like she was developing new dishes.

And nearly every day, a tiny handmade dessert or side dish appeared on Arman’s tray. Styles changed daily, but all carried one theme: ketchup. She clearly wanted him to love her favorite sauce. Tomato-flavored everything. Even that tomato cream puff he still remembered—one bite, mouth flooded with ketchup.

That was Evelia’s cooking: either normal-looking food with overwhelming tomato taste, or crimson-looking horrors that somehow tasted… decent.

Appearance or flavor—she could only nail one. If Arman’s poison resistance hadn’t been maxed out, he’d have been hospitalized long ago.

Truth was, Evelia *was* just cooking. Books said culinary skills were a plus. She genuinely tried to make dishes he’d like. But this stubborn little assassin couldn’t abandon her ketchup. Hence Arman’s self-dubbed "tomato feast."

Arman, equally stubborn, refused to eat what he disliked—but hated the thought of her asking, "Don’t you like my cooking?" So he quietly passed the dishes to whoever was nearby.

Sometimes unlucky reporting knights. Mostly, his old butler Luge.

Arman had jokingly crowned Luge the "designated ketchup disposal unit." Now the old man paled at the sight of tomatoes. He’d slip away during meals, leaving Evelia to serve Arman. *Master won’t die from it,* he’d think, *but my old bones sure will.*

"Pfft…"

Watching Evelia—the utterly oblivious culprit—and recalling Luge’s tomato-phobia, Arman chuckled. The sound drew her gaze back to him.

"Ahem, Eve… I meant stop staring *here*."

"I’m not looking at you anymore," she said, turning away again.

"I mean… *not here*. You understand?"

"I see."

Her reply was flat—a quiet acknowledgment. No hurt, no relief. Arman couldn’t tell if she lacked emotion… or was reading lines from a script.

"I thought you weren’t angry with me anymore."

The follow-up caught him off guard.

"Angry? About what?"

"You’ve been avoiding me."

"—Ah."

*Of course her intuition noticed.*

*Is she only this dense with me?*

"I heard you laugh. I thought you weren’t angry anymore."

"Haah… I’m not angry, Eve."

"Is that so? That’s good."

Her tone stayed neutral—no wounded pride, no quiet joy.

...

Arman rubbed his left temple. He thought he could talk to anyone. Yet Evelia left him speechless.

She seemed full of openings—but deflected every move strangely. Not defense. *Counter.* Leaving *him* tongue-tied.

So… maybe just play defense too.

Both were the "wait for the enemy to move; when they do, counter with chaos" type. First to strike loses.

…Fine.

Arman propped his chin, glancing at Evelia—now obediently not looking.

"Evelia. You may leave."

*Just… put some distance between us.*

...

Evelia met his eyes in silence, said nothing, and walked to the door. *Click.* She turned the handle.

Peering through the narrow gap, she murmured:

"...Sorry for making you angry again."

Then stepped out, closing the door softly.

...

Arman stared at the shut door, lifting his head. Her tone was usual—but that retreating silhouette felt strangely lonely.

*Did I say something wrong?*

*What happened to defense? How did I get parried before even moving?*