Arman, utterly bewildered, was held tightly in Evelia’s arms. His frozen mind slowly rebooted. In about ten seconds, his thoughts shifted from *What does she mean?* to *Whoa—she’s crazy strong! How is she even lifting me?*

What was unnerving was how effortlessly Evelia held him—arms steady, legs straight, not even a hint of strain. Tossing him skyward would’ve been no trouble at all.

In that instant, Arman’s mind flashed: *—Is this… her way of showing off her strength to me?!*

To Evelia, the gesture was a “declaration of reliability,” a quiet show of affection. To Arman, it read like a challenge—a warning to the Captain of the Knights Order: *Mind your business. These arms that lift you so easily could snap your neck just as fast.*

And just like that, a spark of competitive fire ignited in Arman.

"—!"

Evelia stood barely five-foot-seven. With a sharp push, Arman forced her arms down. He planted one foot, used his weight to tilt her forward until her other foot steadied, then—hand pressing her back, the other cradling her waist—their positions flipped in seconds. What had been *Princess Evelia carrying Arman* became *Arman hoisting Evelia onto his shoulder*. Roles reversed.

Draped over his shoulder, Evelia’s waist locked tight, face pressed to his back, legs dangling over his front. She pushed up slightly, turned her head—and caught Arman’s smug, triumphant grin.

Seeing herself slung like a sack, Evelia frowned. She’d only meant to prove her strength. But the moment Arman resisted, that strange, competitive spark flared between them.

She took a sharp breath. Before Arman could ask if she was okay, her leg shot up. An agile assassin by nature, now in a lighter, more supple female form, such moves felt even more natural.

Her intent: clamp his neck, flip him, pin him down. But as her leg rose—Arman, glancing sideways on instinct—caught another clear glimpse beneath her maid skirt.

And this time, it wasn’t just a glance.

Just as Arman tried to look away, Evelia’s legs snapped up. Normally, the move required clamping the neck to unbalance the opponent. But Arman stood rock-solid. Forced to adjust upward, her high kick misfired—both legs clamped squarely around his entire head.

Yes. The whole head. Front and back. Completely enclosed. And the positioning… uncannily precise.

Softness enveloped his vision. A damp warmth brushed his nose. Beneath the white cotton, a faint rustle whispered near his ear. Where his lips touched—searingly hot.

He could’ve stayed upright. But the sheer awkwardness made him surrender. He let himself fall backward with her momentum.

*Thud.* He landed hard. He tried to groan—but Evelia didn’t shift. She landed seated right on him, knocking the breath clean out.

“Mister Arman, are you alright?”

Evelia asked in her usual stiff tone, unaware he was literally muffled. In a way… *better than ever*. Or *worse than ever*.

“Mmmph—"

His muffled breath and lip movement made her shiver faintly. Only then did she realize—this was improper toward someone not an enemy.

“Ah… my apologies, Mister Arman.”

Her face remained perfectly neutral as she shifted.

“…"

After another muffled sound, she leaned back just enough to give him air—but didn’t rise. She settled astride his chest, palms firm on his shoulders, ready to lock in a submission hold if he moved again.

“…"

“Mister Arman?”

She felt his racing pulse, his ragged breaths—but chalked it up to exertion. *He’s alive. Not fragile enough to die from a fall.*

In combat, contact was inevitable. Trained since childhood at the Nightingale House: victory justified any move. Feelings? Irrelevant. Tactics? Anything goes. Win. Complete the mission. Satisfy the Second Prince. That was her purpose. That was why she lived.

But Arman was different. Untouched by the Nightingale House’s emotional conditioning.

He said nothing. Just crossed his arms tightly over his face in an X, leaving only his nose to gulp what felt like desperately needed air.

“Mister Arman…?”

“I’m… fine,” he cut in, pressing his arms tighter. “Could you… please get off me?”

“…Alright.”

Taking it as surrender, Evelia stood and offered a hand. He refused. Sprang up in a flash. Turned. Walked away—no word, no glance—leaving her hand frozen midair, clutching empty space.

“…Ah.”

She stared at her empty palm, then at his retreating back. A quiet, unfamiliar pang of loss settled in her chest.

Meanwhile, Arman hurried around a corner. Only at the door did he realize—he’d walked the wrong way in his fluster. After a wide loop to avoid her path, he finally reached his room.

*Click.* He locked the door. *Thud.* He slumped against it, breathless, utterly spent.

His face and neck burned crimson—the exact shade of ketchup Evelia loved most.