"I’m sorry," I said quickly. "I didn’t mean anything by it. If it matters, I personally prefer shorter women. Fun-sized, more cuddly and all that."
Elsa’s expression immediately softened, and her posture relaxed like I’d hit some kind of reset button. "Well, that’s certainly wise of you," she said, tossing her hair back with renewed confidence. "Daintiness is the essence of femininity, after all. And just because I’m small doesn’t mean I’m not imposing."
She raised her chin proudly, which would have been quite regal if she wasn’t half naked. "It is more impressive to be small and strong than to be large and strong. Anyone can be powerful with size. It takes true skill to be mighty without it."
"Can’t fault you there," I agreed, marveling at how quickly she could bounce back from offense to self-assurance.
It was like emotional whiplash watching her moods shift. And that was more or less what I’d suspected would be the case, and what I hoped to test by bringing this topic up.
This princess was really interesting.
She was charming, for sure, and beautiful, without a doubt.
She wasn’t dumb, but she was spoiled, and she seemed easily manipulated, too. She really would be helpless in this world if I abandoned her.
I decided then and there that I’d at least keep her around as long as she wanted me.
At the moment, that sounded like it was going to be a long time since she was convinced I was supposed to be her party member or whatever, but if half of ’till death do us part’ marriages ended in divorce, I figured party members could call it quits on a dime too.
Elsa had moved on to a new set of stretches that involved her arms more than her legs, giving me a momentary reprieve from the more distracting poses—until I realized just how much her boobs were affected by the new motion.
"These ’pan-cakes,’" she said, "did you purchase them from a local merchant? Or perhaps summon them through some Earth magic?"
"No, I made them," I replied. "From scratch, except for the syrup and butter. The blueberries were from my freezer."
Elsa paused, looking genuinely impressed, her eyebrows lifting toward her hairline. "You prepared them yourself? You possess culinary abilities?" She breathed it out in a disbelieving rasp.
"Yeah, I’m pretty active in the kitchen," I said with a modest shrug, inwardly adding ’from this day forward’ to the sentence. "I’ve been living on my own for a while after all. If you count microwaveable and canned food, I’m pretty much a master chef. Not sure how good this diet is for my long term health, though."
"I don’t know what these ’canned’ or ’microwaveable’ foods are," Elsa said, "but you need not worry about longevity and health concerns."
She straightened up from her stretch, fixing me with a serious look. "People like us with access to the System are blessed with extended lifespans and superior health. In twenty years when we face the Demon King Black Lazarus together, you will likely look only a few years older at most. My other companions and I will not age even a day since we come from longer-lived peoples to begin with."
I blinked, processing this new information like a computer with a super-loaded task manager on 1990s RAM.
Apparently, I now had a super-long lifespan. And double-apparently, it was now my job to fight Black Lazarus alongside her.
There was a lot to unpack there, but I decided to make like Elsa from Frozen and let it go for now.
"Good to know," I croaked, filing that away for later consideration. "Anyway, I should probably head back downstairs. I’ve got dishes to wash and—"
"Wait! Don’t go!" Elsa cried out with a sudden urgency that startled me. She reached out as if to physically stop me from leaving, though she was across the room.
"What’s wrong now?" I asked with an arched brow. "Is Black Lazarus hiding in my kitchen?"
"I..." Elsa seemed to be thinking rapidly, maybe searching for a reason to keep me there. Her eyes darted around the room before settling back on me. "My feet! They’re terribly sore from all that walking last night."
I raised an eyebrow high enough to disappear into my hairline. "It was a pretty short walk. And I carried you most of the way. Over my shoulder."
"Yes, but..." She pouted dramatically, jutting out her lower lip, "Portal travel is very taxing on one’s extremities. It’s a common side effect. The magical energies compress the... foot... bones. And stretch the... toe... also bones."
"Uh-huh," I said skeptically, not believing a word of this bullshit. "Hey, if you don’t want to be left alone, just say so."
She furrowed her brows. "How dare you call me out so shamelessly?!"
I chuckled. "So what do you want me to do about those royal piggies? Run you a bath to soak them?"
"No," Elsa said with a grin. Her expression brightened now that she realized I was humoring her after all. "A foot massage would be most helpful, Sir Grey, royal butler. It’s standard medical treatment for... Post-Portal-Travel Sore Foot Syndrome."
"Ah, the ol’ PPTSFS," I chuckled. But I hesitated, weighing my options.
On the one hand, it was a bullshit excuse to keep me around and lord over me some more—and to get my hands on her, too, which was an intriguing little choice on her part.
On the other hand, I was also starting to realize that I didn’t actually mind catering to her anyway.
I’d been alone for long enough that any female company beyond hooking up with random mildly unhinged pizza delivery girls was a welcome change.
Now, Grey Coleman ain’t no simp, mind you, but I had been a bit touch-starved these last few months, and to be given any kind of female attention, let alone such positive and possibly flirty attention as Elsa was giving me, was practically an irresistible siren song.
There was also something refreshing about her complete lack of shame.
She wanted what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it—or make up fake medical conditions to get it. A part of me wished all my exes were like that.
Fuck yes, just tell me what you want. I’m not a mind reader, so spell it out for me. Well, that’s what Elsa was apparently born to do.