The Konuari family was ready to visit the zoo.
Well. Almost ready.
Elena was definitely ready.
"Papa! Papa! Let's go! Let's go!" She bounced around the living room like a tiny silver-haired meteor, wings fluttering, tail wagging with excitement. "Zoo! Zoo! Zoo!"
Her energy was immense.
Yuuta watched her with a mixture of awe and exhaustion. How could something so small contain so much movement?
"Zoo, Elena," he corrected gently. "Not 'zoo zoo zoo.' Just zoo."
"ZOO ZOO ZOO!" she agreed happily.
Yuuta gave up.
In the corner, Erza sat on the floor—still refusing the couch—with Yuuta's phone in her hands. Her violet eyes moved rapidly across the screen, absorbing article after article about Earth's animals.
Don't ask how she figured out the phone, Yuuta had decided earlier. Dragons are just... blessed with understanding things. Apparently.
"Fascinating," Erza murmured, scrolling. "This 'lion' creature... it has only one head, yet it rules its domain through pure strength. Primitive, but effective."
She swiped.
"And this 'elephant'... massive. No elemental powers, no magical defenses, yet it fears almost nothing. Purely physical dominance."
Another swipe.
"The 'tiger' stalks alone. The 'wolf' hunts in packs. Each has evolved to survive without magic, without mana, without anything but flesh and instinct."
She looked up, something like respect flickering in her cold eyes.
"Your world's beasts are... impressive in their own way."
Yuuta blinked.
Did the Dragon Queen just compliment Earth?
Before he could respond, she added: "Pathetic compared to real monsters, of course. But impressive for creatures with no magical essence."
And there it is.
Yuuta turned back to his closet, searching for something decent to wear. A simple outing. A normal day. He wanted to look presentable—
Wait.
He froze.
Wait a second.
He looked at Erza.
Then at Elena.
Then back at Erza.
Yuuta stood in the doorway between his bedroom and the living room. He didn't lean against the frame or cross his arms. He looked like someone waiting to be acknowledged rather than someone about to speak.
He cleared his throat once. Softly.
"My Queen?"
Erza looked up from the phone in her hands. She had been holding it with the kind of careful suspicion usually reserved for strange animals or cursed artifacts—her thumb hovering above the screen, never quite touching, as if she expected it to bite her at any moment. Her silver hair caught the dim light from the window, and her expression was unreadable as always.
Elena, who had been bouncing on the sofa cushions like a tiny earthquake, paused mid-hop. Her little legs stayed bent, her small hands pressed into the fabric, and she tilted her head at her father with wide, curious eyes.
Yuuta hesitated for a breath. Then he spoke.
"I just wanted to ask something."
Erza didn't respond. She simply looked at him. That was enough. Her cold gaze pressed against his chest like a hand that hadn't decided whether to push or squeeze.
He swallowed.
"Does Your Majesty have clothes for this trip?"
The silence that followed was not the peaceful kind. It was the kind that made the air feel heavier, the kind where you suddenly became aware of your own breathing. Even the dust motes floating in the sunlight seemed to pause.
When Erza finally spoke, her voice came out low and flat—no heat, no volume, just the quiet weight of someone who didn't need to raise her voice to make you feel small.
"What did you say?"
Yuuta kept his hands visible. His shoulders relaxed. He had learned, over the past few days, that sudden movements or defensive postures only made things worse.
"I only mean," he said quickly but respectfully, "that Your Majesty's dress is beautiful. Truly. I have never seen anything like it. The fabric, the stitching—it is clearly the work of master tailors."
Erza's expression did not change. Not even a flicker.
"But it is the only one you have," Yuuta continued, measuring each word like he was placing them on a scale. "And Elena's little dress—the one with the snow crystal patterns—she cannot wear it forever. Neither can Your Majesty."
For a long moment, Erza simply stared at him. Her eyes moved across his face, searching for something—mockery, perhaps, or hidden meaning. Finding nothing, she spoke.
"You believe that I packed luggage for this journey?"
Yuuta blinked. "My Queen?"
"You believe that I—a queen of Atlantis—prepared for an extended stay in this world by selecting multiple outfits and folding them neatly into trunks?"
Her voice carried no anger. That was what made it dangerous. The cold precision of a teacher correcting a student who had asked an impossibly stupid question.
"You believe that when I stepped through a dimensional rift—tracking the father of my child across the boundaries between worlds—I paused to consider my wardrobe? That I thought to myself, 'Ah, but what shall I wear on Tuesday?'"
Yuuta opened his mouth. Closed it. His ears felt warm.
"No, my Queen. That is not what I—"
"I arrived with nothing." She cut him off cleanly. No sharpness. Just fact. "The clothes on my body. The child at my side. That is all."
She paused, and in that pause, something shifted in the room. Not the temperature—the temperature remained perfectly still. But the weight of her presence seemed to settle, like a bird landing on a branch.
"I did not plan to stay," she said. "I did not plan to sit on your inadequate furniture. I did not plan to breathe your stale air. I did not plan to tolerate your existence for longer than the moments needed to end it."
Elena, who had been listening quietly with her head still tilted, seemed to sense the change in the atmosphere. She slid off the sofa without a sound, her small bare feet padding across the floor, and wrapped herself around her father's leg like a tiny, determined koala. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his pants.
Erza noticed. Her eyes dropped to the child for just a moment. Something flickered behind her cold gaze—brief, unreadable, there and gone like a fish breaking the surface of dark water.
"But you asked for a year." Her voice softened almost imperceptibly. Not warmth. Erza did not do warmth. Just less ice. "And I gave it. So here I remain. In the same clothes. On the same sofa. In the same world I never intended to visit."
Yuuta let the words settle around him like fallen leaves. He didn't argue. He didn't defend himself. He simply nodded, his chin dipping once.
"I understand, my Queen. You did not plan to be here. None of this is what you wanted."
Erza said nothing. Her silence was confirmation enough.
"But Your Majesty is here now." He kept his voice low, respectful, the way one might speak in a library or a temple. "And you are staying. For a year. You cannot wear the same dress for a year, my Queen. Even queens need clean clothes."
Something shifted in her expression. It was not softening—Erza did not soften, not really. But the sharp edges of her posture retreated, just slightly, like a cat deciding not to swat after all.
"And you propose to solve this problem how?" she asked. Her tone was still cold, but there was something beneath it now. Curiosity, perhaps. Or simply the patience of someone waiting to be entertained. "Will you weave garments from moonlight? Conjure fabric with your human hands?"
Yuuta shook his head. A small, almost apologetic movement.
"No, my Queen. Nothing so grand."
He hesitated. His hand hung at his side for a moment, fingers twitching once before he made a decision. Slowly, carefully, he extended his open palm toward her.
"May I have the phone, my Queen?"
Erza looked at his hand. Her eyes traced the lines of his palm, the calluses on his fingers, the slight tremor he couldn't quite hide. Then her gaze lifted to his face.
"Why?"
"Because I would like to buy clothes," Yuuta said. "For Your Majesty and for Elena. Through the internet. With money."
She stared at him like he had just offered to build a palace using only toothpicks and good intentions.
"Buy clothes," she repeated. The words came out flat, disbelieving.
"Yes, my Queen."
"Through the internet."
"That is how it is done here, my Queen."
"With money."
"Usually, yes."
Erza looked down at the phone in her hands. She turned it over once, as if seeing it for the first time. Then she looked at him. Then at Elena, who was still wrapped around his leg, her cheek pressed against his knee.
"You would spend your resources on us?" The question came out different from her others. Quieter. Less like an accusation. More like genuine confusion, as if the concept did not fit into any framework she understood.
Yuuta nodded.
"Your Majesty needs clothes," he said simply. "I have money. It is not complicated, my Queen."
"But I am going to kill you."
She said it plainly. No threat in her voice. No drama. Just a fact, stated with the same calm certainty someone might use to say the sun rises in the east or winter follows autumn. It was not a promise. It was simply the truth.
Yuuta looked at her. His hand remained extended, palm up, empty and waiting.
"Yes, my Queen," he said quietly. "You are. In a year. I have not forgotten."
"Then why?"
The question hung in the air between them, naked and honest. No mockery. No trap. Just a queen, asking a man why he would help someone who planned to end him.
Yuuta considered the question. His hand did not lower.
"I do not know, my Queen," he admitted after a long moment. "Perhaps because Elena needs Your Majesty to be comfortable. She is small. She watches everything. If you are unhappy, she will know."
He glanced down at his daughter. Elena looked up at him with eyes that were far too old for her small face.
"Perhaps because you are trapped here whether either of us likes it," he continued. "And I know what it is like to be trapped somewhere you do not want to be. It is not a feeling I would wish on anyone."
He paused. Swallowed.
"Perhaps because Your Majesty is here. In my home. On my sofa. Breathing my stale air." The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "And I cannot simply watch you suffer in the same dress for a year, my Queen. It is not who I am."
Erza held his gaze.
The silence stretched. Long enough that Yuuta could hear the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. Long enough that he felt the weight of his own heartbeat in his chest. Long enough that he considered lowering his hand, accepting defeat, retreating back to his room.
Then, without a word, Erza placed the phone in his palm.
Her fingers did not touch his. She held the device by its edges, offered it like a queen handing a sword to a knight she had not yet decided to trust.
Yuuta closed his fingers around it carefully. Gently. Like accepting a blade from someone who had not yet decided whether to let go.
"Thank you, my Queen," he said.
Erza did not respond. She simply turned her gaze to the window, where the afternoon light was beginning to fade into the soft gold of early evening.
Elena, still wrapped around her father's leg, looked up at him and whispered one word: "Papa."
Yuuta looked down at her. Then at the phone in his hand. Then at the queen sitting on his sofa, wearing the same dress she had arrived in, her silver hair catching the fading light.
He had a year.
Maybe that was enough time to figure out what he was doing.
"Okay."
Yuuta lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa—perching, really, like a bird afraid of breaking a branch. He kept his back straight, his hands on his knees, and gestured gently toward the cushions beside him.
Elena scrambled up immediately, pressing her small body against his side like she was trying to merge with him. Her tiny fingers curled into his sleeve.
Erza remained standing. Her gaze swept from Yuuta to the empty cushion at the far end of the sofa—the maximum possible distance while still being technically on the same piece of furniture. After a long, deliberate pause, she lowered herself onto the very edge.
Three people sat on a two-person sofa.
The space between Yuuta and Erza could have accommodated a small horse.
No one mentioned it.
Yuuta unlocked the phone and opened the shopping app. The screen glowed, stalled, spun, and finally loaded—colors and images flooding the display like a marketplace come to life. He tilted the screen toward them.
"See? This is how people buy clothes in this world. Everything is online now."
Erza leaned forward. Just slightly. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the glowing rectangle.
"These are paintings," she said flatly. "Illustrations of garments. What purpose do they serve?"
Yuuta blinked. "No, Your Majesty. These are photographs. Images of real clothes that exist in actual warehouses."
"Then where are the clothes?" Her brow furrowed. "You show me images, not fabric. How can I judge quality from a picture? How can I feel the texture? Test the durability? Assess the craftsmanship of the stitching?"
Yuuta opened his mouth. Closed it. His hand drifted to the back of his neck.
"That is… a very fair point, my Queen. But this is how it is done here. You look at the pictures. Read the description. Check the reviews."
"Reviews."
"Other people who bought the same thing. They write about whether it is good or not. Whether the fabric is soft. Whether the size is accurate. Whether it arrived looking like the picture or like a sad potato sack."
Erza's eyes widened a fraction.
"Strangers," she said slowly, "provide testimony about the quality of garments. And you trust this?"
"It is not about trust, my Queen. It is simply—" He paused. "It works. Mostly. Sometimes. On good days."
Erza's expression suggested she had serious doubts about both the system and his sanity.
Elena, who had been squinting at the screen with the fierce concentration of a tiny general planning an invasion, suddenly raised her hand. Her small finger pressed against the glass.
"Papa! That one! The pink one with the shiny things!"
Yuuta looked. A small girl's dress covered in what appeared to be hundreds of tiny reflective circles. Sequins. The dress glittered even in the thumbnail image like a disco ball had exploded.
"That is very sparkly, little one."
"Elena wants that one! Elena wants all the sparkly ones!"
The corner of Yuuta's mouth lifted. "Sparkly ones. Very well. We can find sparkly ones."
He scrolled through the children's section, moving slowly so Elena could see each option. She gasped at every dress—sometimes in delight, sometimes in horror if the sparkle level was insufficient. Her small hands gripped his arm tighter with each passing page.
Erza watched.
Not the screen.
She watched him. The way he angled the phone so Elena could see better. The way he explained each dress in simple words. The way he laughed softly at her reactions instead of growing impatient.
Her expression did not change. But her eyes followed every small movement.
After several minutes of browsing—and several extremely sparkly dresses added to the cart—Yuuta turned toward Erza. He kept his posture respectful.
"Your Majesty. It is your turn now. If I may ask—what kind of clothing do you usually prefer? Aside from the imperial dress."
Erza considered the question. Her chin lifted.
"Silk. Velvet. Materials worthy of my station. Deep colors—crimson, violet, midnight blue. Nothing gaudy. Nothing common. The fabric must be substantial. I will not wear flimsy things that tear at the first tug."
Yuuta nodded slowly, scrolling through the women's section.
"Elegant. Rich colors. Quality fabrics." He paused. "I understand, my Queen. However—" He hesitated, weighing his next words like a man stepping onto thin ice. "I will need Your Majesty's measurements. For sizing purposes."
Erza's expression did not change.
But the temperature in the room dropped three degrees.
"Measurements," she repeated.
"Yes, Your Majesty. Chest size. Waist size. Height. Different bodies require different sizes. If I guess incorrectly, the clothes will not fit properly. Too small. Too large. Uncomfortable in either case."
Silence settled over the room like a blanket made of knives.
Yuuta kept his eyes on the phone screen, scrolling slowly through options as if this were the most normal conversation in the world.
"Elena first, I suppose," he continued, keeping his voice light. "She is small, so probably a—"
The world exploded.
One moment, Yuuta was sitting on the sofa.
The next moment, he was intimately acquainted with the floor.
Something had struck the side of his head with the force of a runaway carriage. His vision went white. His ears rang. His body described a graceful arc through the air—if graceful meant flailing and pathetic—before crashing into the wooden floor in a heap of tangled limbs.
The phone flew from his hand. It spun through the air like a confused bird, bounced off the coffee table, and slid to a stop under the television stand.
Yuuta lay on his side, one hand pressed against his skull.
"OW—!" His voice came out strangled. "WHAT—WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!"
He looked up.
Erza stood over him.
She had moved so quickly he hadn't seen it. Now she towered above his crumpled form like an avenging statue carved from ice and fury. Her fist was still raised. Her knuckles were white. Frost crept along her fingers like tiny vines.
Her violet eyes blazed.
"You perverted human!" Her voice was low—dangerously low—the kind of quiet that preceded natural disasters. "How dare you ask a queen about her personal body measurements! Do you think I am some common tavern wench to be sized up like livestock at market?!"
Yuuta stared up at her from the floor. His head throbbed. His vision was still swimming.
"I—Your Majesty—that is not—"
"Did you imagine I would simply tell you such intimate details?!" Her voice rose—not much, but enough to make the windows vibrate. "Did you think I would allow you to know the contours of my—my—" She stopped. Her jaw tightened. Her cheeks flushed—just slightly, just enough to notice. "DISGUSTING MORTAL!"
"YOU GOT IT WRONG!" Yuuta shouted, still clutching his head. "THAT IS NOT WHAT I—"
"Explain!"
The word cracked through the air like a whip.
Yuuta pushed himself up to his knees. His head pounded. A lump was already forming beneath his fingers—warm, tender, and growing by the second.
"I need Your Majesty's measurements," he said, speaking slowly, carefully, as if explaining something to a very angry cat with claws extended, "to register them on the website. So the clothes fit properly. Different sizes for different bodies. If I simply guess, you will receive clothing that is too small or too large. It will be unwearable. You will be uncomfortable. Everyone will be unhappy."
He pointed toward the phone, still visible under the television stand.
"That is how online shopping works, my Queen. You need chest size. Waist size. Height. Otherwise, nothing fits. I was not asking for personal information for my own gratification. I was trying to buy you a dress that will not split down the back when you sit down."
Erza stared at him.
Her expression did not change.
But something in her eyes flickered.
"...Oh."
The word was small. Quiet. Almost swallowed by the silence.
"Yes, my Queen. 'Oh.'" Yuuta rubbed his head again. The lump was impressive now—the kind of bump that deserved its own name. "I was not trying to be a pervert. I was trying to purchase clothing that actually fits Your Majesty."
Silence stretched between them.
Elena, who had watched the entire exchange with her hands pressed over her mouth and her eyes as wide as dinner plates, tugged at her mother's sleeve.
"Mama hit Papa."
Erza looked down at her daughter.
"Yes," she said slowly. "I did."
"Mama should not hit Papa."
"Mama had a very good reason."
"Mama did not have a good reason. Papa was just talking about dresses."
Erza opened her mouth. Closed it.
Elena stared up at her mother with the unblinking judgment only a six-year-old could produce.
"Mama needs to say sorry."
Erza's eye twitched.
"Mama does not—"
"Mama. Say. Sorry."
The room went very, very quiet.
Erza looked at Elena. Then at Yuuta—still on his knees, still rubbing his head, still looking like a man who had been struck by lightning and was trying to process the experience.
Her jaw worked side to side.
"...Tch."
She turned away. Her profile was sharp against the fading light.
"You should have explained properly from the beginning, mortal. This is your fault for being unclear."
Yuuta gaped at her.
"My fault?! Your Majesty punched me in the head!"
"Because you asked for my measurements like a common—" She stopped. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. "Do you have a measuring tool?" she interrupted coldly. "I will provide the numbers myself. Without your involvement. Without your eyes. Without your presence in the same room, preferably."
Yuuta stared at her for a long moment.
Then he sighed—a long, defeated sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he muttered. "There is a measuring tape. In the bathroom drawer. The white one with the numbers on it."
"Retrieve it. Leave it outside the door. Then go to the kitchen and do not emerge until I call for you."
"Your Majesty, this is my apartment—"
"Kitchen. Now."
Yuuta rose to his feet. Slowly. Carefully. The room swayed slightly.
As he limped toward the bathroom, he heard Elena's small voice behind him.
"Papa has a big bump."
"Yes," Erza replied. "He does."
"Does Papa need ice?"
A long pause.
"...Perhaps. But Mama will not be the one to get it."
"Elena will get it. Elena is helpful."
Another pause.
"Yes," Erza said quietly. "You are."
Yuuta closed his eyes for a moment as he walked.
He had asked for a year with his daughter.
He had not asked for daily head trauma.
But apparently, the universe had decided he needed both.