AT THE EVENING
VESTA
By the time the sun started dipping past the rooftops, the tavern was empty again. A few stray coins glinted on the counter tips from adventurers who swore they 'weren't hungry' before ordering seconds. I stacked the bowls, wiped down the tables, and hummed under my breath. Peaceful. Finally.
I leaned on the counter, arms folded, watching the fading light crawl across the floorboards. The smell of stew and herbs clung pleasantly to the air. If I were still in heaven, I'd probably have called this kind of silence sacred. Down here, it was just… nice. Then the door slammed open.
"-Oh, for the love of every pantheon-" I started, turning around.
A man stumbled through the doorway, tall, dark hair matted with sweat, armor cracked and smeared with blood and dirt. He took two shaky steps inside, blinked like he wasn't sure if I was real, and collapsed. The sound echoed through the empty tavern like a hammer on my skull.
"Really?" I muttered, dropping my rag. "Can't go one day without someone bleeding on my floor?"
I hurried over, kneeling beside him. His breathing was ragged, shallow, but steady enough that I didn't have to panic. I placed a hand on his chest, faint divine warmth flowed out instinctively. Cuts sealed, bruises lightened, and color crept back into his face. The faintest glow shimmered under my fingers before fading. He sighed in relief, an exhausted, almost content sound and slumped against the couch near the wall.
"Just what I needed." I muttered, hauling him gently onto it. "Another stray."
He mumbled something in his sleep. I leaned closer, catching him telling his name.
"Michael…"He whispered.
"Michael, huh?" I said softly. "Level two, judging by the armor… and the way you collapsed like an overcooked onion."
I fetched a damp cloth and wiped the grime from his forehead, shaking my head. He looked young, but there was that telltale spark of a fighter, someone who'd seen too much too early, and yet still charged headfirst into trouble. Typical Orario adventurer.
"Alright, Michael." I murmured, tucking a pillow under his head. "You're patched up, fed by divine accident, and drooling on my couch. Try not to die again, at least until I have had dinner."
I straightened, sighing as I returned to the hearth. The stew still simmered quietly, sending up small curls of fragrant steam. I ladled some into a bowl and set it on the counter, one for me, one for the unconscious idiot behind me, once he woke up. As I finally sat down, spoon in hand, I glanced over my shoulder. He was sleeping soundly, face relaxed, breathing steady. A small, tired smile tugged at my lips.
"Guess I've still got it." I said. "The goddess of cooking, healer of fools, keeper of couches."
Outside, the lamps of Orario flickered to life one by one. Inside, the tavern was warm, the air soft, and for once, I didn't mind the company.
"Rest up, Michael." I murmured, raising my spoon. "You've earned it. And if you drool on my pillow again, I am charging extra."
Morning sunlight leaked through the cracked shutters, painting lazy gold streaks across the floorboards. The tavern was still and warm, filled with the faint smell of simmered broth and herbs. I was halfway through stirring the pot when I heard a groan from behind me.
"Where… am I?" The voice was low, hoarse, the kind that sounded like it had been dragged through gravel.
"Alive, somehow." I said, not looking back. "Try not to ruin that."
There was a rustle of fabric, the creak of the couch. I glanced over my shoulder just long enough to see him blinking awake, dark hair messy, eyes unfocused but sharp underneath. He looked around the tavern like he'd stepped into someone else's dream. Then his gaze landed on me and froze.
"Oh." He breathed.
I arched an eyebrow.
"You're welcome."I said.
He blinked again, sitting up slowly, a hand to his chest where I had healed him.
"I… I was in the Dungeon. I thought I was done for."He said. "I smelled food and collapsed here."
"Nearly were." I said, stirring the stew. "You collapsed on my floor. Bled a little. Snored a lot."
He flushed, looking mortified.
"Sorry, I, I didn't mean to-"Michael began.
"Relax. I've seen worse. You're the third person this week who's tried to die near my furniture."I said.
He hesitated, watching me move around the kitchen. His eyes followed every small motion, the way I brushed my hair back, adjusted the pot, tasted the stew. I could feel the weight of it.
"Something on your mind?" I asked dryly, glancing over.
He straightened, caught like a kid staring at a goddess, which, ironically, was exactly what he was doing.
"I, uh… you, you healed me, didn't you?"Michael asked.
"I patched you up, yes."I said nervously.
"With… magic?"He asked.
"With dinner." I said, turning toward him. "And maybe a touch of something else."
He swallowed, staring like he wasn't sure if I was joking or divine. His dark eyes softened, curious, reverent almost.
"You're… beautiful."Michael whispered.
I blinked, spoon halfway to my mouth.
"Bold thing to say before breakfast."I said.
His face went crimson.
"N-no, I mean-! I just you look-"Michael begun nervously.
"Like I've been awake since dawn making stew for strangers?" I interrupted, amused. "Because that's exactly what I look like."
He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. "Guess I'm not great with words."Michael muttered nervously.
"Clearly." I said, ladling stew into a bowl and setting it before him. "Here. Eat. You'll need your strength if you plan on collapsing again later."
He blinked down at the food, rich broth, tender meat, faint glow of divine energy still humming through it.
"It smells… incredible."He whispered.
"It is incredible." I said. "You're welcome."
At this moment, I could have known that there is more about Michael than it seen in a first place.