Something warm is pressed against you.
The thought drifts through your consciousness slowly, your brain still foggy with sleep. Warm and soft and—
Wait.
Your eyes snap open.
Hestia is wrapped around you like a vine, her face buried against your chest, one arm thrown across your torso, one leg hooked over yours. Her dark blue hair spills across the pillow—your pillow—and her breathing is deep . She's completely, utterly asleep.
And you're trapped.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
Your heart hammers against your ribs. How did this happen? You fell asleep on the pew last night. The hard an uncomfortable pew in the main hall. Hestia had been in her bed. Separate. Safely separate.
So why are you now in a bed—her bed—with a goddess using you as a body pillow?
Think. What happened?
Fragments of memory surface through the panic. Waking up sometime in the night, shivering. The blankets on the pew hadn't been enough. Hestia appearing like a ghost tsking about how cold it was, insisting you'd freeze to death, practically dragging you to her bed because "it's warmer with two people and don't be ridiculous, we're family now."
You'd been too tired and too cold to argue. You'd stayed on your side of the bed. She'd stayed on hers.
Apparently, that arrangement hadn't survived the night.
Okay. Stay calm. Just... carefully... move away...
You try to shift backward. Hestia makes a small noise of protest and tightens her grip, pulling herself closer. Her face nuzzles against your shirt.
You freeze, barely breathing.
This is fine. This is totally fine. She's asleep. She doesn't know what she's doing. Just wait for her to wake up naturally and—
"Mmm... warm..."
Hestia's voice is muzzy with sleep, barely more than a murmur. Her hand curls into your shirt, holding on like you might disappear.
The smart thing would be to wake her up. The kind thing would be to let her sleep—she'd been so exhausted last night, running around preparing things for you, worrying about money, trying to make everything perfect despite having nothing to work with.
You try again, slowly, carefully lifting her arm—
"No..." Hestia mumbles, and suddenly she's shifted, her head now tucked under your chin, both arms wrapped around you in what can only be described as a death grip. "Don't go..."
I'm not going anywhere because you won't LET me go anywhere!
The internal scream doesn't help your situation.
You're stuck. Completely, thoroughly stuck. And with every passing second, you're becoming more aware of exactly how close she is. The warmth of her body pressed against yours. The soft sound of her breathing. The way her hair smells faintly of—is that cinnamon?
Don't think about it. Think about anything else. Math. Taxes. The Guild regulations you need to memorize. That time you saw your grandmother naked by accident and wanted to die—
Hestia sighs contentedly and burrows closer.
I'm going to die. I'm going to die of embarrassment before I ever set foot in the Dungeon.
Minutes tick by. Time has lost all meaning in this prison of warmth and mortification. The room grows lighter as dawn breaks, sunlight creeping through the small window to paint the walls gold.
Hestia's breathing remains steady. Deep. She shows no signs of waking.
Maybe I can just... stay like this until she wakes up on her own. That's not weird, right? That's just being considerate. Letting her rest.
You're trying to convince yourself of this when Hestia shifts again.
This time, she stretches like a cat, making a small noise of satisfaction. Her arms loosen slightly. Her eyes flutter.
Oh god oh god oh god—
"Mmm..." Hestia's voice is soft, still thick with sleep. "That was the best sleep I've had in..."
She trails off.
You feel the exact moment awareness returns to her. Her entire body goes rigid. Her breathing stops.
Then, very slowly, she tilts her head up to look at you.
Her blue eyes are wide. Shocked and mortified.
"Good morning," you say weakly, because what else is there to say?
Hestia stares at you. Then down at herself—specifically at how she's wrapped around you like a particularly determined octopus. Then back up at you.
Her face turns red. Not pink. Not flushed. Red, like a tomato, spreading from her cheeks all the way to the tips of her ears.
"I—" she squeaks. "You—we—"
"You were cold," you say quickly, desperate to explain before she thinks something worse. "Last night. You said I'd freeze on the pew and insisted I sleep here and I swear I stayed on my side but then you—"
"I what?!" Hestia scrambles backward, tangling herself in the blankets. She falls off the bed with a muffled thump.
You lurch forward to help her and nearly fall off yourself. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine!" Her voice comes from the floor, high-pitched and panicked. "I'm so sorry! I didn't—I don't usually—I've never—"
"It's okay," you say, even though you're pretty sure your face is as red as hers. "You were asleep. These things happen."
Despite everything—the embarrassment, the awkwardness, the fact that you're both fully clothed but somehow this feels more intimate than it should—you laugh.
You can't help it. The absurdity of the situation, Hestia's expression of absolute mortification, the way she's trying to fix her hair and only making it worse—it bubbles up and out before you can stop it.
Hestia stares at you like you've lost your mind. "Why are you laughing?"
"Because," you manage between gasps, "this is the weirdest morning I've ever had."
For a moment, Hestia just looks at you. Then, slowly, her lips twitch. A small giggle escapes. Then another. Then she's laughing too, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.
The laughter fades into something softer. And more confortable Hestia lowers her hands, and though her face is still red, the panic has left her eyes.
"I really am sorry," she says quietly. "I didn't mean to... you know."
"I know." You climb off the bed carefully, giving her space. "And for what it's worth, thank you for not letting me freeze to death on a pew."
"You're welcome," Hestia says, then adds quickly, "But tonight you're getting your own blankets. Better ones. Enough that you'll never need to—that we won't have to—"
"Understood," you say, saving her from finishing that sentence.
She nods firmly, then seems to notice her state of dress—or undress. "I should... I need to get ready. You should too. We have a lot to do today."
"Right. Um." You look around the small room. "Where should I...?"
"Out!" Hestia points at the door, her face going red again. "Out out out! I'll call you when I'm dressed!"
You flee to the main hall, closing the door behind you. Once there, you lean against the wall and let out a long breath.
Well. That happened.
Your heart is still racing. Your face still feels hot. But underneath the embarrassment is something else—something warm and unexpectedly pleasant.
Hestia hadn't been upset, not really. Embarrassed, yes. Mortified, absolutely. But not angry. Just... flustered.
And the way she'd been holding onto you, even in sleep, like she was afraid you'd disappear—
Don't, you tell yourself firmly. Don't read into it. She was asleep. It didn't mean anything.
But the warmth in your chest doesn't fade.
Twenty minutes later, you're both dressed and pointedly not making eye contact.
"So," Hestia says, her voice determinedly cheerful. "Today we need to get you supplies. Basic necessities—toiletries, a change of clothes, things like that. And armor for the Dungeon."
Your stomach chooses that moment to growl. Loudly.
Hestia winces. "And food. We need food too."
"Do we have money for all that?" you ask carefully.
"I have some saved," Hestia says, in a tone that suggests "some" is being generous. "It'll be tight, but we'll manage. And some shops might extend credit if I ask nicely."
Credit ?!
The weight of that debt settles on your shoulders. Every valis Hestia spends on you is a valis she doesn't have. A valis you'll need to earn back by risking your life in the Dungeon.
The morning streets of Orario are already bustling. Adventurers move in groups, their armor catching sunlight, weapons gleaming at their sides. Merchants call out from stalls, advertising healing potions and magic swords and maps of the Dungeon's upper floors. The smell of fresh bread drifts from a nearby bakery, making your stomach clench with hunger.
And then you feel a prickling sensation on the back of your neck. The distinct feeling of being watched.
You turn quickly, looking everywhere at the street outside. People walk by, going about their business. No one seems to be paying attention to you. But the feeling doesn't go away.
"Something wrong?" Hestia asks, noticing your tension.
"I... I don't know." You keep looking. "I thought someone was watching us."
Hestia follows your gaze, her expression growing serious. After a moment, she shakes her head. "I don't see anyone suspicious. But stay alert. This city has all kinds of people in it."
The feeling fades slowly, but it leaves you uneasy.
"First stop, the general store," Hestia announces, leading you down a side street.
The shop is cramped, shelves packed floor-to-ceiling with goods. Every available surface is covered—jars of dried herbs, coils of rope, bundles of cloth, tools you can't identify. The shopkeeper is an older woman with sharp eyes and hands stained with ink.
"Hestia," she greets, her tone neutral. "Haven't seen you in a while."
"I've been busy," Hestia says brightly. "This is Wakanabe, my new child. We need some basic supplies."
The woman's gaze slides to you, assessing. You resist the urge to fidget under the scrutiny.
Hestia rattles off a list: toothbrush, soap, comb, washcloth, a small towel. Basic necessities that you'd never thought twice about in your old life. The shopkeeper gathers items efficiently, stacking them on the counter.
"That'll be eight hundred valis," she says.
Eight hundred valis for a toothbrush and soap.
You don't know the exchange rate yet, don't know how much things cost in this world, but the way Hestia's purse looks significantly lighter afterward tells you enough.
"Thank you," Hestia says, gathering the items.
"Hestia." The shopkeeper's voice stops you at the door. When you turn back, her expression has softened slightly. "Be careful with this one "
"I know," Hestia says
"Next stop," she continues, forcibly cheerful again. "Clothes. We need to get you something that won't make you stand out quite so much."