QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 106: Cute

Chapter 106

Daphne POV

I hate feeling so powerless.

When I look at Evelyn—like this—living a life so far from the grandeur she once commanded, it twists something deep inside me.

Instead of the poised, untouchable duchess, she’s here, kneeling by the fire, sleeves rolled to her elbows, struggling to coax the stubborn flame into life.

And it’s all because of me.

The guilt is overwhelming.

I sigh and rub the back of my neck, feeling utterly useless.

I’m supposed to be protecting her. Giving her the life she deserves.

Not... this.

Not a cold, creaky cottage at the edge of nowhere.

She glances over her shoulder at me, catching the tension written all over my face.

"Stop brooding," she says lightly, as if reading my mind.

I try to smile, but it feels brittle.

She makes a face at me, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes before turning back to the fire.

She looks absurdly young like this, absurdly human. Nothing like the powerful, cold duchess she once had to be.

"Give me that," I mutter, crossing the room and crouching beside her.

She doesn’t argue—hands over the poker with a teasing little smirk—and I focus on getting the fire properly lit. The flames catch, crackling to life, and warmth starts to seep into the tiny room.

I sit back on my heels, blowing out a breath.

"See?" she says, nudging me with her shoulder.

"You’re useful after all."

I huff a quiet laugh and bump her back, gentler.

The guilt doesn’t vanish. It lingers, sharp and sour at the edges of everything.

But being near her like this... it softens the sting.

"Are you okay with this?" I say softly.

"I made my choice, Daphne."

"But—"

"No," she cuts me off gently.

"Do you think I’m unhappy?"

I don’t answer right away. I can’t. The lump in my throat makes it impossible.

She turns toward me, hair falling loosely over her shoulders, her face lit by the low golden glow of the fire in the hearth. There’s no anger in her eyes. No regret. Just a quiet, unwavering certainty.

"I have everything I want," she says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

My chest tightens painfully.

I want to believe it. I do believe it. And yet, part of me—the part that still sees her standing tall and cold as a duchess, commanding a room with a glance—aches with the knowledge of everything she gave up. For me. For us.

I bow my head, forehead resting lightly against hers.

"I’m sorry," I whisper.

She smiles faintly, reaching up to cup my face between her palms. Her fingers are warm, steady, real.

"I’m not," she says.

The words knock the breath out of me more than any slap could have. I close my eyes, drinking in the feel of her hands, the closeness of her, the way she never pulls away even when I don’t feel like I deserve it.

"I’ll make you happy," I promise against her skin.

"I swear it."

"You already do," she whispers back.

Her arms loop around my neck, and I slide mine around her waist, pulling her into my lap like she belongs there—which she does, and always has.

***

We have dinner, a small affair—the stew is slightly burnt, but I eat it happily.

She watches me over the rim of her bowl, lips curving into a smile that’s shy and playful at the same time. There’s soot smudged across her cheek from when she’d tried, and failed, to stoke the fire properly. I reach across the table and wipe it away with my thumb.

"You’re supposed to tell me it tastes good, not just look like you’re suffering through it," she says, mock-offended.

I grin. "I am telling you. See? I’m still eating."

She huffs but the corners of her mouth betray her, fighting a smile.

We eat in comfortable silence after that, the kind that only comes after surviving something together—the kind that doesn’t need filling. The wind rattles gently at the windows, and the fire pops once in the hearth, but otherwise, the whole world feels very far away.

Just us.

Just here.

When we finish, we clean up awkwardly but without complaint—water sloshing into the washbasin, rough hands bumping into each other, little snorts of laughter when we nearly drop a bowl. She ties her hair back messily to keep it out of the way, and I watch her, heart aching with how beautiful she looks in this small, ordinary moment.

No silk. No jewels. No crown.

Just her.

And somehow, that’s more precious than anything else.

Later, as we curl up together again beneath the heavy quilts, her hand finds mine under the covers.

She doesn’t say anything.

She just squeezes.

And I squeeze back, promising everything, without a single word.

The fire has burned low, leaving the room bathed in a soft amber glow. I shift slightly, adjusting the blanket higher over her shoulders, and she makes a quiet, content noise, nuzzling closer until her forehead presses against my collarbone.

I can feel her breath, warm and steady against my skin, and for a long moment, neither of us moves.

It’s perfect.

"I was thinking," she murmurs after a while, voice thick with sleep.

I hum low in my throat, threading my fingers lazily through her hair. "Dangerous."

She pinches my side lightly, making me chuckle, and lifts her head just enough to peer up at me through messy lashes.

"Tomorrow," she says, "we should go to the market."

I blink. "The market?"

She nods seriously. "We’re almost out of flour. And the nice old man who sells strawberries said they’d have fresh ones this week."

I grin despite myself. "You just want strawberries."

"And maybe a new hair ribbon," she admits shamelessly, shifting to rest her chin on my chest.

I pretend to sigh, all put-upon. "Strawberries and hair ribbons. A true royal quest."

She laughs, soft and breathless, and it feels like winning something I didn’t even know I was fighting for.

"I want you to pick one too," she says after a moment, quieter. "Something you want."

I brush a loose strand of hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. "I already have everything I want."

She scowls a little, unimpressed. "That’s not an answer."

"Fine," I tease, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. "I’ll pick something."

"Good," she mumbles, settling back against me like she’s determined not to let me go.

The fire crackles softly in the background. I can hear the faint howl of wind outside, and the creak of the wood in the walls—but in here, it’s all warmth and safety.

Tomorrow we’ll walk hand in hand down the dusty village road. We’ll bicker over strawberries and ribbons and pretend that the world outside this little house doesn’t exist.

And for the first time in either of our lives, it will be enough.

It already is.

I tighten my arm around her, feeling her body relax completely against mine, and close my eyes.

Tomorrow can come when it likes.

Tonight, she’s mine.