Evan woke to the soft, rhythmic creak of floorboards and the faint, earthy scent of yeast mingled with woodsmoke.
His eyes flickered open. Morning light spilled golden across the room, but the first thing that sharpened into focus was a dark silhouette perched right at the edge of his bed. Heart slamming, he bolted upright—silk sheets sliding down to pool at his waist, exposing the smooth, sculpted planes of his chest.
"Don't worry. It's me."
Elara's voice—low, steady, a little rough from lack of sleep.
She'd changed sometime in the night. Gone was the wedding dress; now she wore a simple linen tunic and loose trousers, practical for the morning heat. But the fabric was thin, clinging in all the places that mattered. The tunic stretched tight across the full, heavy swell of her breasts, nipples faintly visible through the weave when she shifted. In his old world, that view would've had him rock-hard in seconds. Here? Women's chests were just… chests. Functional. Non-sexual. It was the man's chest—soft, sensitive, blushing—that got people wet.
Yet Evan's gaze glued itself there anyway, something already stirring under the thin blanket.
Elara tilted her head, following his stare. "Is there something on my chest?"
He jerked his eyes up, cheeks burning. "No. Nothing." A beat. Then, softer: "You don't look well today. Your eyes are dark circles. Did you not sleep at all last night?"
He leaned in without thinking—close enough that he could smell the faint wine on her breath mixed with flour. Genuine worry laced his voice.
Elara flinched backward an inch, amber eyes widening. A man leaning in like that? Concerned for her? It was so backwards it made her stomach flip.
"I… drank until late," she admitted, voice raspy. "Couldn't settle."
"Drinking?" Evan frowned, brows knitting. "You didn't go to bed on time? That's not good for you. You should really drink less."
The scolding came out almost bossy—protective. Elara stared, stunned. In this world, men were the ones fussed over, coddled, told to rest. A husband worrying about his wife's hangover? Her pulse kicked up despite herself.
"By the way," he continued, "are you okay coming in here so early?"
"First day after marriage," she explained, regaining footing. "Etiquette says we visit elders for blessings. But since my parents are gone… we offer incense to them instead."
Evan nodded. "Got it. I'll get up now."
He reached for the blanket.
Elara whipped her head away so fast her braid slapped her cheek. "W-wait—"
Evan paused, grinning like sin. "Relax. I'm not naked."
"I know," she muttered, still facing the wall.
"You know?" His voice dropped, teasing. "That's interesting. Did you sneak a peek while I was sleeping?"
Elara's neck went crimson. "No! I just… guessed you wouldn't sleep naked. You married a stranger yesterday. I figured you'd be wary of me."
Evan let the blanket fall away completely. "No, you're my wife. Why would I be wary of you?" He stood, stretching lazily. "I just didn't sleep naked because I was afraid of staining the sheets too hard."
"Stained…?" Elara turned in confusion.
And froze.
Evan stood in nothing but skin-tight white under-shorts. The fabric was practically painted on—clinging to thick thighs, cupping the obscene bulge at his crotch. His cock, still heavy with morning wood, lay thick and long against his thigh, the head outlined clearly through the thin material, a faint damp spot already darkening where pre-cum had leaked during the night. His bare chest gleamed in the light.
Elara's face detonated red.
"Ah—why are you blushing again?" Evan asked, pretending to be puzzled. "I'm wearing clothes. Look—nothing's leaking… much."
For Elara, this was sensory overload. A man—especially one this devastatingly beautiful—standing half-naked, casually chatting like it was nothing? In her world, men were draped in layers, blushing at the mere suggestion of exposure. This raw, shameless display of masculinity hit her like a punch to the gut. Her thighs clenched involuntarily; heat flooded between her legs so fast she had to press them together.
"By the way," Evan said, scratching his abs absently, "can you bring me some clothes?"
"Y-yes! Right away!" Elara squeaked, bolting from the room.
A short while later—both dressed, Evan now in loose trousers and a simple shirt that still somehow made him look sexy—they stepped into the small yard. Two faded portraits rested on a wooden altar: Elara's parents.
"I didn't even get their bodies," Elara said quietly. "Didn't see them one last time. These photos are all we have."
Her voice cracked.
A hand settled gently on her shoulder from behind.
"Don't be sad, sister. It's been a long time."
Maya stepped forward—younger, sharper, same blonde hair cropped short, same amber eyes but brighter, hungrier.
Elara straightened. "Maya, here he is. Your brother-in-law. Say hello."
Maya raked Evan with blatant appraisal. "Hello, brother-in-law. I'm Maya. Just Maya's fine."
"Hello, Maya," Evan replied, smiling warmly.
They knelt together. Elara lit the incense. "Mom, Dad… I'm married now. You can rest in peace."
Evan bowed his head. "Mom, Dad… from now on, I'll be part of the Ashcroft family."
Silence. Both sisters whipped toward him, eyes huge in surprise.
"Did I say something wrong?" Evan asked innocently.
Elara's lips curved—the softest, realest smile yet. "No. You didn't."
Afterward, Elara dusted her hands. "Evan, go rest in the room. I'll cook. Maya—yard."
She headed for the kitchen. Heavy footsteps followed.
She turned. "What are you doing?"
"I'll help."
"No. Leave this to me. Men don't—"
"It doesn't matter. I want to help. Better than sitting around."
Elara sighed, gave in.
Inside, Evan's eyes sharpened. Flour, sugar, vibrant red fruit like oversized strawberries. He tasted one—sweet, juicy—then sampled a cake. Bland. Under-sweetened.
"These are delicious," he said honestly, "but they could be better. You make them to sell?"
"Yes," Elara mumbled, shy.
"All sell in a day?"
"Depends. Sometimes yes. Sometimes… half or less. I do it all alone."
Evan's chest tightened. "That sounds exhausting."
He reached out, plucked the knife from her fingers—deliberately letting his touch linger, thumb brushing her knuckles.
"So what's breakfast?"
"Potato-tomato soup, fried shredded potatoes. If you don't like—"
"No need to buy anything." He stepped closer, voice dropping. "I'll make it. I'm the man of this house. I'm cooking for you today, okay?"
Elara's face went molten. "…O-okay. As you wish."
Evan moved like he owned the space—boiling water, knife flashing, vegetables diced with professional speed. Elara stood frozen, watching. She'd expected helplessness. Instead she got effortless competence—sleeves rolled, forearms flexing, the faint sheen of sweat on his neck making her throat dry.
Aroma filled the kitchen: savory porridge, spiced potatoes. Evan scooped a spoonful, blew gently, held it to her lips.
"Try."
Elara parted her mouth. He fed her.
Then—without breaking eye contact—he dipped the same spoon back in and fed himself.
"Delicious, right?" he murmured, lips curving.
"Yes…" she breathed, brain short-circuiting from the indirect kiss, the casual intimacy, the way his eyes darkened when he looked at her mouth.
From the yard, Maya bellowed: "Sister! I'm starving! Food ready or what?"
Evan chuckled low. "Sounds like Maya is impatient."
He plated everything—porridge, potatoes, a few cakes on the side—and carried it out, Elara trailing behind like she was still trying to process that her "delicate" husband had just turned her kitchen into his own territory.
Inside his head, one filthy promise looped:
Keep blushing like that, Elara.
Because the second you crack… I'm going to fuck you until you forget how to walk straight.