Cecilia had Googled what "McKing" meant.

The moment she first heard Ruby’s accusation in the hospital, "I even saw one of them wearing a McKing uniform," Cecilia had been curious about what it meant.

Apparently, McKing was a fast food franchise. A restaurant chain, but not the kind with tablecloths and wine lists. The kind where food was prepared quickly, served in paper wrappers, and eaten with one’s hands.

Diving further, a "burger-flipper" meant something very specific. A minimum-wage employee whose primary duty was flipping the meat patties of a sandwich type called a burger.

Cecilia had stared at the search results for a long moment.

Something did not add up.

She had checked the location of the apartment first, a simple search of the address, followed by a browse of similar listings in the area.

And the numbers that came back were staggering.

The rent for a four-bedroom apartment on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise in this part of the city was... astronomical.

Then she looked up the average wage of a McKing employee. The numbers that came back were... not astronomical. They were, in fact, the opposite of astronomical. They were subterranean.

No McKing employee could possibly afford the rent of living here. Not even with two roommates. Not even with three.

Which meant one of two things. Either Oathran was lying about his McKing job... or he had some other source of financial support.

His family? No.

Oathran’s family was...

So. It must be his second part-time job.

"Oathran." She did not waste time with the preamble. "What is your second part-time job?" Her eyes were narrowing at him now. "Also, why did you not answer me last night when I clearly wanted to know?"

Oathran coughed, a smile flickering at the corner of his lips. "You didn’t explicitly ask."

"That’s why I am asking now."

Seeing her pushing, he sighed. "I thought we were keeping each other’s boundaries?"

Cecilia knew it wasn’t fair. She had failed to answer his worries last night, deflected his questions about her phone and her family and the cascade of missed calls that had betrayed some larger crisis she was not prepared to explain.

But to be fair, she didn’t know much about her own life in this world, let alone how to share it with someone else.

So, she didn’t feel bad.

"Just tell me." She glared.

Oathran fell into a daze. The problem was, a Dragon Lord’s daze made him look less like a part-time burger-flipper and more like an A-list actor staring in warm, romantic wonder at his co-star.

His misty grey eyes went soft. His lips parted slightly. The store light caught the edge of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the faint, iridescent shimmer of the black horns that marked him as something other than human.

And people around them started to stare.

"Fine. But," his voice sharpened, "pick out more furniture designs for your room. No buts."

Cecilia opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it again, because Oathran was pointing at the catalogue, forcing it on her.

She huffed and grasped his hand, pulling him toward the display section. She pointed at catalogues and physical designs. The attendant beside them, who had been hovering at a respectful distance, immediately began noting down her selections.

Then she pointed at rugs. Then armchairs.

"BWAHAHAHWHAHAH—"

Oathran’s laugh burst out of him. The speed of her decision-making was breathtaking. She had been in a rush because she wanted to hear his answers, but she had also made sure to choose furniture that matched the brutalist design of the apartment.

"Choose your own style. I know you are minding the apartment, but experiments are welcome," he said, still chuckling.

"Then," Cecilia narrowed her eyes, a spark of challenge igniting in her gaze, "you will not say a thing if I want everything to be pink?"

"Everything will be pink if you say so." Oathran answered patiently.

Ding.

Oathran glanced down, distracted by his phone. He pulled it out casually and swiped at the screen, dismissing whatever alert had caught his attention.

But Cecilia had seen it. Just a glimpse, a flash of numbers, too many zeros to count, disappearing the moment his thumb moved across the screen.

Her eyes widened by a fraction before she smoothed her expression back into neutrality. Oathran put his phone away and turned back to her, his expression unchanged.

"What?" he asked, his voice gentle.

"I also want that one. That one. That. And that." Cecilia pointed at more furniture begrudgingly.

"BWAHAHAHAHAH—"

After they finished their haul at Molteni&C, they left for lunch. Oathran, she discovered, preferred flying over any other mode of transportation.

This was not surprising. In the real world, he also used to fly everywhere. But here, in this world, he didn’t reveal his wings.

He simply grabbed her around the waist, pulled her close, and launched them both into the air. The city fell away beneath them, the streets and buildings shrinking to a glittering patchwork and the wind rushing past Cecilia’s ears in a cold, exhilarating roar.

Cecilia, by all means, was used to this too.

Oathran noticed. After taking her out of the apartment by flying too, his own heart was pounding hard against his ribs.

Did she know? Had she known all along? He had only ever revealed his horns that most people assumed marked him as some kind of bovine beast, especially given his McKing uniform and his unassuming demeanor.

But Cecilia had not reacted to the flight with surprise or fear or even mild concern. She had simply... accepted it. As though being carried through the sky by a man who could fly was the most natural thing in the world.

"Oathran." Cecilia cut through his spiraling thoughts. "Do you have a flying permit?"

Oathran blinked. "What?"

"Aren’t airborne beasts in this world required to have one?" She turned to him innocently. Her expression was of a woman who had definitely just Googled this and was genuinely curious about the answer.

"Yes. I have a flying perm—pffffhuhuhuhu..." the absurdity of the question caught up with him, and a laugh burst out of his chest.

He couldn’t even begin to predict what she would say. Every time he thought he understood the shape of her, she surprised him with something new.

They landed at a local steakhouse, a warm, wood-paneled establishment that smelled of searing meat and garlic butter.

Cecilia’s eyes immediately glittered when they stepped inside, her gaze fixing on the nearest table’s sizzling platter, feeling the excitement of her body that had been craving protein all morning.

"Urp—"

And then she gagged. Her hand flew to her mouth and her face paling.

What do you mean you want meat but you can’t stand the stronger scent of it?!

Was this the curse of pregnancy, after all? Would she also experience this in the real world when it comes?

"I will get you a seat with better air flow," Oathran said, his hand already at the small of her back, guiding her toward a table near the window.

"Thanks." Cecilia smiled sheepishly.

After they got their seat, chose their orders, and settled into the warm, quiet corner of the restaurant, Oathran finally could not stand her pointed look anymore.

"Alright. I will tell you."

He sighed and set down his water glass.

"My second part-time job is a hunter. I close rifts and it pays a lot. And I also bring back mana dense gourmet ingredients," his voice dropped slightly, becoming almost self-conscious, "which I sell to three-star restaurants."

Cecilia’s eyes widened. Her hands, which had been resting on the table, went very still.

Oathran—

Just like in the real world... he had involved himself in—