My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode : 58

Chapter : 115

She was seated at the small, elegant writing desk near the window, a ledger open before her, quill poised but not moving. Her head was turned slightly, those unnerving, obsidian eyes fixed directly on him. Her expression was, as usual, unreadable, a perfect mask of indifference. But the question hung in the air, sharp and demanding an explanation for his solitary, undirected amusement. And worse, for the fact that his vaguely sweet, smiling gaze had apparently landed squarely on her.

Oh, hell and damnation. Lloyd scrambled internally, feeling his cheeks flush hot with pure, unadulterated embarrassment. She saw me smiling? While looking AT HER? After morning's cow dung spectacle? She must think I'm completely unhinged! Or worse, maybe she thinks… no, impossible. She doesn't 'think' in those terms. Still, the awkwardness was monumental.

"Uh, no! Nothing!" he stammered, hastily wiping the smile off his face as if erasing incriminating evidence. He sat up straighter on the sofa, snatching the fallen book back into his lap, trying desperately to project nonchalant studiousness. "Just… thinking. About… guild regulations," he finished lamely, gesturing vaguely towards the dense text. "Fascinating stuff. Really makes you… chuckle. Internally. You know." Wow, Lloyd. You sound like a complete idiot. She's definitely not buying that.

Rosa’s gaze didn't waver. She observed the faint smile playing on Lloyd's lips, the slight upward quirk that seemed directed, inexplicably, towards her. Then came his hasty denial, the flush rising on his neck, the stammered, nonsensical excuse about guild regulations being amusing. His explanation lacks coherence, she noted internally, her mind automatically dissecting the interaction.

The physiological signs suggest discomfort or embarrassment, contradicting the initial positive expression. The stated reason – finding guild rules humorous – is illogical. She considered possibilities. Was he simply lost in an unrelated pleasant thought and startled when caught? Was it a deliberate, albeit clumsy, attempt at initiating some kind of interaction? Or was there truth to his earlier bizarre claim about 'slime mold' affecting his cognition?

The latter seemed improbable, yet his recent behavior consistently defied simple explanation. She remained silent, allowing the awkwardness to hang, observing his reaction to the lack of response. Silence was often more revealing than pointed questions.

He felt the familiar urge to shrink, to mumble an excuse about needing fresh air and bolt from the room. No, the eighty-year-old pragmatist asserted itself, wrestling control back from the flustered teenager. Don't retreat. You look guilty when you retreat. Pivot. Change the subject. Seize the initiative.

He had planned to do this later, perhaps tomorrow, allow more time for the dust (and dung smell) from the morning’s demonstration to settle. Give her space to process the existence of the first dispenser bottle he’d left for his father’s assessment. But this excruciating awkwardness… it was an opportunity. An uncomfortable one, granted, but an opening nonetheless. He had her undivided, analytical attention. Might as well deploy Phase Two of Operation: Thaw the Ice Queen (or at least lower the ambient room temperature by a degree or two).

He pushed himself off the sofa decisively, ignoring the slight protest from his back as he stood. The movement was deliberate, reclaiming control of the interaction. "Actually," he began, his voice regaining its steadiness, adopting a tone of casual purpose that hopefully masked his earlier fluster, "since I have your attention… there is something."

He walked over to the large, ornate wardrobe near his side of the room – a piece of furniture whose dark, polished depths he rarely explored, given his established sofa territory. He opened it, the hinges sighing softly. He rummaged briefly within a sturdy leather travel bag tucked away on the bottom shelf – a bag containing essentials he kept separate, just in case, a habit formed perhaps in his military life on Earth, or perhaps just a subconscious acknowledgment of the impermanence of his position within this suite. Inside, carefully wrapped in clean, soft linen, was the second dispenser bottle. A perfect twin to the one currently undergoing assessment in his father's study. Crafted with the same painstaking precision, the same fusion of warm oak and cool steel.

From Rosa's perspective, sitting at her desk, quill still poised, she watched him move. He abandons the poor attempt at deflection, she observed coolly. Now retrieves a concealed object. Given the timing and his earlier presentation, it's highly probable this is related. Her gaze remained fixed, watchful, missing no detail of his posture or expression as he turned back towards her.

Chapter : 116

Lloyd turned back towards her, holding the linen-wrapped object carefully, respectfully. He walked towards her desk, the polished floorboards cool beneath his feet. He stopped a respectful distance away, consciously honoring the invisible boundary, the demarcation line between 'his' sofa zone and 'her' territory encompassing the bed, the armchair, the writing desk. The geography of their cold war. He held out the object, slowly unwrapping the linen to reveal the bottle within.

It gleamed softly in the afternoon light streaming through the window. The polished oak seemed to glow warmly, contrasting beautifully with the precise, silvery sheen of the steel pump mechanism. It looked even more striking here, in the relative elegance of the suite, than it had in the dusty gloom of the smokehouse. A small beacon of functional art.

"This," Lloyd said, his voice calm now, carefully modulated, sincere, devoid of the earlier awkwardness or the forced nonchalance. He met her questioning obsidian gaze directly, holding the bottle out as an offering across the no-man's-land between them. "I wished to give this to you, Rosa."

Rosa stared at the bottle, then up at him. Her expression remained carefully neutral, a lifetime of practiced control keeping any flicker of surprise or confusion from showing. Yet, internally, her sharp mind processed the unexpected development. He duplicated the object. And offers this one… to me. The word 'gift' resonated oddly. A gift? Between us? This contradicts all established patterns of interaction. There was no political necessity, no social obligation dictating such a gesture. It was… personal. Unprompted. Illogical, based on their relationship thus far.

"A gift?" she echoed, her voice perfectly flat, betraying none of the slight internal dissonance she felt. She wasn't suspicious in the emotional sense, but rather, her logical framework required understanding the motive behind this deviation. "Why?" The question was direct, seeking the underlying reason for this unexpected action. What is his objective?

Lloyd took a shallow breath. He needed to frame this carefully, appeal to her known preferences. Sentimental appeals would be ineffective, likely even counterproductive. "Consider it…" he began, searching for the right angle, "a practical improvement. A logical extension of the prototype demonstrated this morning." He kept his tone level, mirroring her own preference for factual delivery. "An offering towards… enhanced personal comfort and efficiency within our shared," the word still felt awkward, inaccurate, "living space."

He gestured towards the bottle, highlighting its practical merits. "Morning's experimentation yielded a functional cleansing agent superior to existing options. This delivery system," he tapped the steel pump gently with a knuckle, the faint metallic sound sharp in the quiet room, "optimizes its application. It ensures hygienic dispensing, minimizes waste, and possesses," he added, shifting subtly towards aesthetics, appealing to her likely appreciation for quality and design, "a degree of engineered elegance."

He took a small, tentative step closer, holding the bottle out slightly further, bridging the invisible divide by mere inches. An offering. A gesture that felt strangely significant in the context of their usual distance. "I recognize," he continued, his voice dropping slightly, becoming more direct, acknowledging the cold reality of their arrangement, "that the circumstances of our cohabitation are… suboptimal." A significant understatement, her mind dryly noted. "Interaction is minimal. Personal spheres are maintained." He met her eyes again, his expression earnest now, shedding the analytical tone for something closer to simple sincerity, a shift she registered with detached interest. "But perhaps small considerations, improvements to the shared environment, however minor, can mitigate the inherent… awkwardness. Reduce friction points."

He offered a small, almost shy smile, an expression so rarely directed her way that it felt like another anomaly to be filed away. "You value logic, efficiency, Rosa. I have observed that much." He paused, then added, perhaps sensing her potential dismissal of purely practical reasoning, "And, if I may observe objectively, you also possess a discernible appreciation for aesthetic quality, for things well-made." He nodded towards the bottle again. "This object aligns with those principles. It is functional art. Designed to make a simple daily task easier, cleaner, more… orderly."

He held her gaze, his earnestness seeming genuine, though she reserved final judgment. "Consider it a tool, then. An efficiency upgrade for your personal ablutions." He added, almost as an afterthought, returning to a pragmatic justification, "And, practically speaking, maintaining the quality of one's appearance is a logical component of upholding status and influence within noble society. This aids in that." He presents multiple justifications, Rosa analyzed. Practicality, efficiency, aesthetics, even social strategy. A multi-pronged appeal designed to overcome potential objections based on lack of personal connection.

He held his breath again, the bottle extended, waiting. The silence stretched, filled only by the dancing dust motes and the distant ticking clock. Rejection was her typical response to his attempts at interaction. Suspicion regarding his motives was logical. Dismissal was efficient. Yet… the object itself possessed an undeniable appeal. The design was clean, intelligent.

The implied function – improved hygiene and comfort – was logically desirable. And the gesture, however unexpected, however potentially calculated, represented a shift, a deviation that warranted further consideration, if only to gather more data on his evolving behavior. Accepting held minimal risk and offered potential utility. Refusing offered nothing but maintenance of the status quo. The logical choice, however emotionally neutral she remained, was clear. She waited, balanced on the edge of her decision, observing him, observing the beautifully crafted object offered across the divide