Chapter 34: Burnt white porridge.

Morning, seven o’clock.

Habit is a terrifying thing.

When Hill opened her eyes, she instinctively sniffed the air, expecting to catch that familiar blend of freshly baked bread and just-brewed coffee.

But there was nothing.

Today, only an unsettling silence greeted her.

No warm towel was handed over.

No sweet, syrupy good morning.

No one drew back the curtains for her.

“…”

Hill froze for several seconds before suddenly remembering—Phyllis was ill.

Yesterday, after they returned.

The moment the nun—who had forced a smile and arranged everything—closed the bedroom door, she collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

Mana backlash from severe overexpenditure—what people commonly called “mana burn.”

“Phyllis?”

Hill turned carefully onto her side.

The person beside her was still asleep.

Phyllis curled beneath the blankets; her usually immaculate golden hair now spilled messily across the pillow.

Her cheeks burned with unnatural flush; her breathing came fast and fever-hot.

Hill reached out and gently pressed her palm to Phyllis’s forehead.

Scorching.

The heat traveled through her fingertips, making Hill’s heart clench painfully.

“…Is this the price?”

Hill stared at her own hand—the one Phyllis had once gripped so tightly.

To protect her, to pull her back in that desperate moment, this fragile girl had burned through everything she had.

You idiot, Phyllis.

Why go this far for someone like me—who can only swing a sword…

Hill bit her lip and quietly slipped out from under the covers.

In the past, Phyllis had always taken care of her.

Today, it was Hill’s turn to guard their home.

…

Downstairs, in the kitchen.

This was the first time Hill had stood here as the cook.

Normally she only watched Phyllis work miracles, producing a full feast as if by magic.

Now that it was her turn, she realized it wasn’t so simple.

“Porridge… just put rice and water in and boil, right?”

Hill muttered uncertainly to herself, staring at the bag of premium short-grain rice in her hand.

She followed the steps she remembered.

Rinsed the rice. Added water. Lit the flame.

But the fire was too high.

Within moments, a faint scorched smell rose from the bottom of the pot.

“Oh no!”

Hill hurriedly turned the flame down and stirred frantically with the wooden spoon.

A swordswoman who could slice a fly’s wings mid-flight now gripped this tiny spoon like a marionette—movements stiff and awkward.

“Don’t burn… please don’t burn…”

Hill stared intently at the white porridge, fine sweat beading on her forehead.

Her expression was more tense than when she had faced the Abyssal Butcher.

Half an hour later.

Hill carried a tray upstairs into the bedroom.

On it sat a bowl of rather unappealing-looking porridge and a cup of warm water.

“…Hill?”

A weak voice rose from the bed.

Phyllis had woken.

She tried to push herself up, but her arms gave out and she fell back against the pillow.

“Don’t move! Lie still!”

Hill quickly set the tray down, hurried over, and supported her, propping two soft pillows behind her back.

“I’m sorry… I slept in…”

Phyllis’s voice was hoarse; her eyes were red-rimmed from fever-induced tears.

“I haven’t made breakfast for Hill yet… Even though I’m the one who takes care of Hill…”

“Idiot. It’s way past that now.”

Hill put on a stern face, pretending to be angry, but her hands were impossibly gentle as she tucked the blanket around Phyllis.

“You should let me have a chance to show off too. I’m not so helpless that I’ll starve without you.”

She scooped up a spoonful of the porridge, blew on it carefully.

“Here—open up. Though… it probably isn’t as good as yours.”

Hill offered the spoon with a hint of embarrassment.

Phyllis looked at the somewhat cloudy white porridge.

If anyone else had made this subpar mess, she might have thrown both bowl and contents out the window.

But this was made by Hill.

By the Hill she had always cradled in the palm of her hand—the one whose ten fingers never touched mundane labor—clumsily boiling porridge just for her.

“Mmn…”

Phyllis opened her mouth and accepted the spoon.

It was a little too hot, carried a faint scorched note.

The rice wasn’t fully cooked—some grains still hard.

Yet this was, without question, the most delicious thing she had ever tasted in either of her lives.

“…Delicious.”

Phyllis swallowed and gave a pale but radiant smile.

“It tastes like Hill.”

“Liar. It must taste awful.”

Hill’s face flushed.

“Don’t force yourself.”

“It really is delicious.”

Phyllis opened her mouth again, like a baby bird waiting to be fed.

“More.”

Seeing her so unguarded, so utterly dependent, something soft inside Hill crumbled.

She fed her spoonful by spoonful; her movements grew smoother with each one.

So this was what it felt like to take care of someone.

Watching her eat filled Hill with a strange, warm satisfaction.

Phyllis ate slowly.

She savored every second of Hill’s focused gaze.

Look…

Those hands made for killing are now holding a spoon for me.

This clumsy tenderness is utterly intoxicating.

It seems I’ll have to stay sick a little longer.

…

After breakfast came a more important matter.

Hygiene.

Phyllis had a mild cleanliness obsession.

Even while ill, after only a quick wipe-down in the carriage last night and a full night of fever-sweats, she now felt unbearably sticky.

“Um… Hill.”

Phyllis clutched the corner of the blanket, eyes darting away, cheeks burning red enough to drip blood.

“I’d like… to wipe myself down. I’m covered in sweat. It feels awful.”

“Should I call Nia or Elisa to help?”

Hill suggested almost reflexively.

“No!”

Phyllis’s refusal came sharp and immediate. Realizing she had overreacted, she quickly softened her voice; tears gathered in her eyes.

“I don’t want anyone else to see me like this… especially Nia. Her hands are full of bacteria…”

“And besides…”

She lifted her gaze, eyes glistening as they met Hill’s.

“I’m only used to Hill’s warmth.”

There it was again.

That sense of exclusive belonging that no one could refuse.

“…Alright. I’ll do it.”

Hill sighed, went to the bathroom, and returned with a basin of hot water and one of Phyllis’s favorite soft towels.

Though in her previous life she had been a man, and in this life everyone had already seen each other naked in the bathhouse,

actively helping another person wash in such an intimate setting still made Hill nervous.

“Give me your hand first.”

Hill wrung out the warm towel.

Phyllis obediently extended her arm.

That slender wrist—pale and fragile from blood loss and mana exhaustion—showed every faint blue vein clearly beneath the skin.

Hill wiped it carefully.

The warm towel glided over skin, carrying away sweat and leaving behind a faint blush.

“Here… can you press a little harder?”

Phyllis pointed to her collarbone and the hollow of her throat.

That area had sweated the most and felt especially uncomfortable.

Hill leaned closer.

As her breath neared, Phyllis’s distinctive sweet fragrance grew stronger.

A private, intimate scent that made one’s face burn.

“It might tickle a little.”

Hill averted her eyes awkwardly; the towel gently traced Phyllis’s delicate collarbone.

“Mmn…”

Phyllis let out the softest nasal hum; her body trembled faintly.

She closed her eyes, savoring the pressure of Hill’s fingers.

The touch wasn’t professional.

A little clumsy.

A little hesitant.

But that very hesitation proved just how much Hill cared.

Phyllis secretly cracked one eye open, watching Hill so close.

Hill was biting her lower lip, expression as focused as if she were defusing a bomb.

Sweat trickled down Hill’s temple.

You’re the one taking care of me, yet you’re the one sweating from nerves.

So cute.

Phyllis couldn’t resist lifting her freshly cleaned hand to lightly touch Hill’s cheek.

“Hill.”

“Hm? What is it?”

Hill paused mid-motion.

“Nothing.”

Phyllis smiled like a child who had just received her favorite candy.

“I just thought… if I didn’t get sick, I wouldn’t get to see this expression on Hill’s face.”

“…Don’t talk nonsense.”

Hill tossed the towel back into the basin, half-annoyed, half-embarrassed.

“Get better soon—that’s what matters. I don’t want to cook that awful porridge every day.”

“But I like it.”

Phyllis caught Hill’s fingers and pressed a soft kiss to them.

“Anything Hill makes—even if it were poison—I would still like.”

Hill’s fingers trembled once, but she didn’t pull away.

…

The entire day, the small house in the White Rose District remained exceptionally quiet.

Because Phyllis needed complete rest, Hill firmly refused Elisa and Nia’s requests to visit the bedroom, sending them instead to the guild to handle the handover of Marius’s belongings.

The whole world seemed reduced to this curtain-drawn bedroom.

Hill sat at the bedside, flipping through a knight novel she had brought back from the carriage, occasionally replacing the cool towel on Phyllis’s forehead.

Phyllis lay on her side, quietly watching Hill’s profile as she read.

No words were needed.

They barely even needed to meet eyes.

In this slow-flowing, tranquil time, the threads of symbiosis were silently winding tighter.

Hill was gradually growing accustomed to the role of caretaker.

She discovered she could be the one needed, too.

Yet she did not realize—this very feeling of being needed was the softest, strongest cage Phyllis had ever crafted for her.

…

When the last ray of sunset vanished behind the curtains,

Phyllis—half-dreaming, half-awake—murmured,

“Hill… don’t go…”

Hill closed the book and took the hand that had been groping blindly outside the blanket.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She promised softly, voice gentle as water.

“I’m right here.”

“Mm…”

The corners of Phyllis’s mouth curved faintly.

She sank into a dream without nightmares.

In the dream, there was only a pair of tightly clasped hands.