"Ow… ow…! Could you be a little gentler…?"

"No… no more pressure…! Don’t go any deeper…!"

"Not there…! Please, Sir, have mercy…!!! At this rate, my brain’s gonna fry—!"

What did you think?

Truth was, every single pained cry came from Arman.

If the room’s soundproofing were worse—or more servants happened to pass by—his moans might’ve been mistaken for some suspicious "little game."

But really? They were just cleaning ears.

"Don’t move, Mr. Arman. It’ll hurt more if you do."

"It hurts even when I *don’t* move…!"

"Mr. Arman, please stay still."

There it was again—that familiar frown. Her face twisted with clear disdain, failing to form even a proper smile. Arman swallowed hard and averted his gaze.

It was *just* ear cleaning… yet Evelia’s clumsy hands made it feel like torture.

Arman had no idea where she got those tools: two cloth pouches—one soft instruments, one hard. They looked professional at a glance. But when Evelia frowned, picking up that needle-like tool gleaming coldly… he half-expected an interrogation.

"Is Mr. Arman uncomfortable?"

Noticing his expression—nothing like the stick-figure model in the manual—Evelia paused her hand inside his ear canal.

"Ah…" Arman gave a conflicted look. "It’s not… *that* uncomfortable?"

He was in agony. Yet he didn’t know why he lied.

"…Hmm."

After a brief pause, she tucked the tool back into the pouch.

"Mr. Arman, please wait one moment."

A soft rustling followed. From somewhere, she pulled out a thin booklet titled *Sleep Aid Manual* and flipped through its pages by firelight.

As for Arman—he’d been pulled onto the bed, firmly pressed onto Evelia’s lap. A "lap pillow," technically.

Not exactly cozy. From the start, Evelia had probed his ears with zero restraint, like administering torture. Still, she was holding back. If she used the same strength that could lift him in a bridal carry for this "ear cleaning," his brain might’ve been scooped out.

Now, with Evelia busy studying the manual, he finally caught his breath.

To cushion his head better, she’d adjusted her stockings and hiked her skirt slightly, offering the softest part of her thigh. She’d even tucked away the hidden blades in her lining—just in case a slip made him suspicious.

With Evelia no longer attacking his ears, Arman stilled. He *knew* this closeness should be refused… yet his heart didn’t resist.

Her warmth seeped through him. A deep breath brought her familiar scent.

Lying on her lap—*she* was the source of his turmoil—yet her steady breathing slowly soothed him.

As her abdomen rose and fell, he unconsciously shifted closer.

Noticing, Evelia gently patted his tense shoulder. She’d never learned to comfort anyone… yet her hands moved instinctively: soft pats, slow strokes down his back—like soothing a child, guided by buried memory.

"…I’m not a kid, Eve."

He said it—but under her touch, he curled inward anyway.

"I know, Mr. Arman. You’re a full eight years older than me."

"…You didn’t have to say it like *that*."

"But isn’t it enough that it calms you?"

"What kind of reply is that…"

Still, anyone would soften at such tenderness—memories of childhood warmth rising unbidden.

"Mr. Arman… what’s been troubling you?"

She set down the finished manual, opened her pouch, and drew out a peacock feather.

"Troubled? I… nothing’s really troubling me."

The feather brushed his earlobe. A feather-light touch sent a shiver through him. He’d heard of this method—but a man raised among blades had never experienced such gentleness.

"If you’re not troubled… why can’t you sleep?"

"Insomnia has many forms. Maybe I just… can’t fall asleep."

He lied lightly—refusing to admit *she* was the reason.

"I see. Feeling better now?"

Evelia didn’t press the lie. She only wanted him at ease. This hazy moment *was* perfect for prying… but their bond felt too fragile. Today, she chose silence.

"…Better."

"Good. Then relax. Don’t stay so tense."

Her whisper—sweet, breathy—should’ve calmed him. Instead, Arman grew more alert, nerves humming tight.

The feather traced his earlobe, then dipped gently into his ear canal. Soft as it was, the whisper-close rustle filled his mind: *shhh… shhh…* the peacock feather lingering against his ear.

"Mr. Arman… are you allergic to peacock feathers?"

"Hm? I… shouldn’t be…"

He tilted his head instinctively—to meet her eyes. But all he saw was the gentle curve of her body.

Thanks to her generous bust, from this lap-pillow angle, her face stayed hidden.

"You’re not allergic?"

Unnoticing his trembling gaze, she patted his shoulder and brushed his ear.

"Your ears are very red."