It was hard to imagine: the esteemed Captain of the Royal Knights sat dazed, clutching a crate of ketchup. He genuinely had no idea what to buy—so he’d just grabbed a whole crate. If it wasn’t enough, he could reorder from the market. Money for ketchup? He had plenty. No matter how much Evelia needed.
But… giving ketchup?
“This is just too weird,” Arman muttered, cringing at his own awkward loitering outside Evelia’s dorm door.
Thankfully, her room stood apart. Otherwise, passing servants would’ve surely whispered.
“Haa… What on earth am I even doing…”
Exhausted in body and spirit, he slumped against the wall beside her door, arms propped on the wooden crate.
From his spot, the morning sun glowed softly outside. Maybe because of a dawn dream, he found himself cherishing the warmth on his skin—gentle, bright, soothing.
No mold, no rot. Just the clean scent of sunlight in the air.
He was a man long accustomed to blood and decay, yet he could never adjust to Evelia’s faint, delicate fragrance. Every time it drifted near, his heart raced. And so, his feelings toward her stayed stubbornly awkward.
“…”
“Never mind.”
After a quiet moment, he whispered the words to the empty air and simply sat, gazing at the window’s golden light.
While Arman was at the Knights Order, it was Evelia’s day off. Not one for wandering, she stayed at Anna’s clothing shop—chatting quietly when customers came, listening to gossip when the shop was empty.
Anna recounted nobles caught by wives at brothels, heirs discovered not to be blood-related. Cliché scandals, yes—but Anna’s vivid storytelling had Evelia utterly engrossed. In another era, she’d make a perfect storyteller abroad.
“So many noble scandals—most are hardly surprising. Miss Evelia, don’t worry. As long as your identity stays hidden, gossip will target the man. Those chatterboxes *love* this stuff.”
Evelia nodded at the first part, then her gaze settled on Anna.
“W-Why stare at me?!” Anna’s cheeks flushed as she waved a tiny pastry—far too small to hide her face. “I’m not a gossip! I’m seriously helping you, Miss Evelia!”
“Mm. Thank you.”
“Uwaaah—!” Tears welled instantly. “Waaah… Being friends with Miss Evelia is just… so wonderful…”
Unsure how to comfort her, Evelia handed her a macaron. Anna cradled it like treasure, voice trembling:
“Waaah! Miss Evelia *herself* gave me a pastry—Waaah! I finally have a true friend…!”
Sniffling, Anna calmed after Evelia’s stiff, clumsy comfort. She served finer tea and sweets. Evelia ate little, but Anna’s lively energy gently stirred something quiet in her heart.
“Bye, Miss Evelia! When you invite that knight out, *you must tell me!*”
“Mm. Alright. Goodbye.”
Evelia left without lingering. Absorbed in Anna’s chatter about capital nobles, she hadn’t noticed the time. Now, sunset painted the sky. Carrying the dress Anna gifted as a “friendship token,” she strolled back to the manor, savoring the evening’s calm.
Back at the estate, Arman felt, for the first time, how unbearably long a day could be.
Even grueling training never made waiting for dusk feel this torturous.
Just as Evelia once waited in the kitchen, holding a ketchup-filled egg tart for his return, he now waited outside her door—watching the hallway.
Her past frustration was now his own simmering torment.
“—Mr. Arman?”
At last, in the sunset’s final glow, Evelia appeared. She blocked the fading light, yet her amber-gold eyes shone like captured sunlight.
“Eve. You’re back.”
Relief lifted his brows. He wondered who she’d dressed so beautifully for—but apology came first.
“Um… Eve.”
He stood, brushing dust from his clothes. After hours on the floor, he felt unworthy before her pristine elegance.
“This… is for you.”
He swallowed hard, pointing at the crate. He’d faced battlefields without this tension.
He’d kicked an enemy commander’s head like a ball in public—but offering Evelia ketchup felt unbearably awkward.
“What is this?”
She leaned toward the crate. That familiar scent drifted teasingly into his nose.
“Ketchup.”
“Hm?” She looked up, surprised. “Ketchup?”
“Yes. I picked the finest…”
“Would you like some?”
“No.” His hand went to his neck. “I… I’m giving it to you.”
“For me?” A trace of confusion in her voice.
“Mm. For you.”
“But I don’t need it.”
“…Huh?”
He hadn’t expected such a blunt refusal.
“Please keep it. I have no use for this ketchup.”
“…”
Frozen in awkward silence, he stood helpless.
“Could you step aside, please?”
“Ah—yes, of course.”
He moved, but she added softly:
“Mr. Arman… a little farther, if you please.”
“Ah? Ah—um… okay…”
“And take the ketchup with you.”
“O-okay…”
He hesitated, but seeing she wouldn’t move until he did, he bowed his head, cradled the crate, and walked away—visibly dejected.
Only when he vanished did Evelia sigh in relief. Opening her door, her eyes landed on the withered blue rose facing the entrance.
*If he’d seen this while waiting… disaster.*
As for the ketchup—her own supply was perfectly organized, dated, and sufficient. Accepting his would risk waste. Those premium bottles were better enjoyed by him. If he grew to like the taste… all the better.
Arman trudged back to the denuded rose bushes, clutching the crate like a stray puppy kicked into the cold.
“Eve… so she really does hold a grudge… I thought that was long forgotten…”
