I Raised the Demon Queen (Now She Won't Leave Me Alone)-Chapter 76 : Fire and Sulk

The morning after the soup incident, Revantra didn't speak.

Not once.

She came out of her room wrapped like a burrito in a knit blanket, trailing behind her like a sad cape, and parked herself on the armchair near the fireplace. Her hair stuck up like she'd fought it in her sleep and lost. Her eyes were tired but defiant—like a small war criminal refusing trial.

Elias raised an eyebrow from the kitchen.

"Are we... communicating through blankets now?"

No answer.

Just a slow turn of her head. A soft blink. The visual equivalent of, 'I hear you, but I choose silence.'

"Okay," he muttered, pouring himself tea. "Blanket of shame it is."

Revantra tucked herself tighter into the folds, becoming more fabric than girl.

He let her be.

Mostly.

He vacuumed around her. Dusted around her. Even lit the fireplace for her despite it being spring and mildly warm. She didn't budge.

At noon, she accepted a plate of toast with the solemnity of a prisoner at their last meal. By midafternoon, she had migrated to the floor in front of the fire, still wrapped, her head resting on one of the couch pillows she had abducted.

By evening, the sulking had crystallized into something permanent. A kind of wearable mood.

Elias sat across from her, flipping a medical journal and not reading a single word.

Eventually, he closed the book and sighed.

"You know," he said, voice quiet, "I'm not mad at you."

A slow blink from the blanket.

He continued. "I mean, yes, you caused a scene. You upstaged an entire room full of capital scholars. You may have traumatized a waitress. And, for reasons I still can't emotionally unpack, you weaponized soup. But... I'm not angry."

Still no words from the burrito.

"But," Elias added, "that doesn't mean you get a free pass."

Her eyebrows twitched above the blanket line.

"I get that you were upset. I get that emotions are hard. Believe me, I've flung a dish or two in my life. But next time, maybe try talking to me before you burn someone's pride off in public."

She groaned, long and muffled. "I know."

"So... why didn't you?"

"Because!" she snapped, sitting up with the blanket still coiled around her like a defensive serpent. "Because it felt like you didn't see me. You were smiling, and laughing, and forgetting I existed. And then she put her hand on your arm, and I just—" She flailed one wrapped arm. "I boiled. Literally."

Elias watched her, quietly.

"I didn't want to say it out loud," she mumbled, looking down. "Because it would sound pathetic. Or... clingy. Or something else you'd hate."

"I don't hate it."

"You don't?"

He stood and crossed the room, crouching in front of her. "I don't hate when you care."

"I poured soup on someone."

"That's... extreme caring."

She cracked a weak smile.

Elias exhaled. "Revantra, when I tell you it's okay to feel things, I mean all of them. Even the ugly ones. Especially the ones you don't know how to name yet."

She looked up at him. "So... you're not disappointed?"

"I'm a little disappointed."

"Oh."

"But not in you."

Her gaze flicked up again, hesitant.

"I'm disappointed," Elias said, "that you felt like you had to fight for space in my attention. You already have it. I just... I didn't realize you needed to hear that."

"I did," she whispered.

A pause.

"I need a lot of things I'm not used to asking for."

"Try me."

She gave a small nod and retreated back into the blanket. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Okay."

He stood and ruffled her hair once—gently, affectionately. She didn't even growl at him for it.

Then he disappeared into the kitchen.

She stared into the fire, blinking slowly.

When he returned, he had a mug in hand. Warm milk, faintly sweetened with honey and something floral—he always added lavender when he thought she needed help sleeping.

He set the mug beside her.

"Just in case," he said.

She stared at it for a long time before wrapping both hands around it and lifting it to her face. Steam curled into her nose. It smelled like patience.

He started to turn away, but her voice caught him.

"Elias?"

"Yeah?"

She didn't look up. Just stared into the mug like it held a secret.

"You're important to me."

He paused, the weight of those four words settling over him slowly.

"I know," he said. "You're important to me too."

She held the mug tighter.

"Then don't forget it," she whispered.

His breath hitched.

"I won't."

He lingered a second longer, then left her to the fire.

Behind him, she curled back into the blanket, mug against her lips, cheeks pink from something warmer than milk.

The fire crackled on.

And somewhere between awkward silence, badly timed soup, and the clumsy orbit of two hearts that still didn't know how to hold each other properly—something unspoken softened.

Love, in its earliest form, rarely made itself known through grand gestures or declarations.

Sometimes, it came wrapped in a blanket.

Sulking.

Sipping warm milk.

And remembering what mattered.

To be continued...