He never repeated the sa style twice. Every al was a little surprise.
And the spices—oh, he didn’t just throw them into boiling water like Cutie did, pretending that was enough.
No. He ground them by hand, using a stone—old-school style. Then he roasted them dry until the fragrance filled the room, and only then did he rub the mixture deep into the at—before it even hit the pan.
Every bite?
A wow mont.
It was like being transported straight back into her modern world—where food had layers, personality, and soul.
Even for sothing as basic as bathing, he didn’t take shortcuts.
Instead of just handing over a bucket of freezing water, he would go out, collect clean snow, and lt it over the fire until it was warm. It took more wood, more effort—sothing the locals had clearly noticed and talked about—but he didn’t seem to care.
Because at the end of the day, the bath was warm.
The food was amazing.
Of course, there was one thing she absolutely had to say—
This idiot didn’t know how to stitch a single damn thing.
He had no clue.
One day, while Kaya was resting, she casually asked him to stitch the hide on the floor that had torn near the corner. Just a simple task.
Instead?
This fool went and ripped it further—like, completely tore the whole thing off the ground. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he picked up the entire hide and walked toward the door, clearly about to throw it out like garbage.
If Kaya hadn’t woken up just in ti, he probably would’ve done it too.
She stared at him, genuinely speechless.
Was this guy raised in so pampered palace?
Wasn’t he supposed to be a beastman too? Soone who had survived harsh winters, who knew how to live with less?
But after that day, Kaya started noticing more little things.
Like how this so-called lord didn’t seem to have the slightest concept of modesty or restraint.
He had arrived with just one piece of clothing on him. That’s it. No bags. No extras. And once that got too dirty or torn, what did he do?
He started wearing her robes.
Won’s robes.
And not even awkwardly—he walked around the house like it was the most natural thing in the world. Loose sleeves trailing behind him, the hem swishing against his ankles, chest slightly open.
Completely unbothered.
Worse—he looked good in them. Which was infuriating.
And sotis—just sotis—Kaya started suspecting that he was doing it on purpose.
That this whole clueless, charming idiot act was a setup.
Because no one could be that unaware.
Right?
But slowly... Kaya began to understand.
No, this person wasn’t doing it on purpose.
He was, in fact, a genuine fool.
One day, she asked him to sweep the floor. That’s it. Just a simple, universal task.
Take a broom. Sweep the ground. Done.
Anyone could do it.
Right?
Wrong.
This idiot didn’t just ss it up—he destroyed four of her ceramic bowls. Four! And here’s the best part: the bowls weren’t even on the ground.
They were neatly arranged on the upper rack she himself had built out of wood. So how—how—did he manage to break them while sweeping the floor?
That mystery may never be solved.
But it didn’t stop there.
While "sweeping," he sohow managed to trip around the basket full of carefully dried herbs. The entire thing fell to the floor, herbs spilling everywhere like colorful confetti.
Did he stop?
No.
Did he apologize?
Also no.
Instead, this so-called "little lord" slipped again—yes, again—and in his grand stumble, he knocked over the latch of the wooden cage where she’d kept seven or eight roosters she had painstakingly raised and contained.
And just like that, they were free.
Feathers flew.
Roosters scread.
All seven or eight of them flapping wildly around her once tidy ho.
And there she was, in the middle of chaos, chasing rogue poultry with a broom in hand while that damn wheel of a man laughed and tried to catch them like it was so festive village ga.
When it was finally over—when the roosters were caught and stuffed back in their cage—Kaya stood in the middle of her room.
Her beautiful, clean, calm room.
A room that, just a few days ago, looked like a hotel.
Now?
It looked like a garbage dump after a storm.
And the cause of it all?
Grabbing her temple and rubbing it slowly, Kaya asked in a tone so forced it could snap at any mont:
"What did I tell you to do?"
Veer looked at her, innocent as ever, and blinked.
"Um... sweeping?" he replied, voice unsure.
Kaya’s eyes narrowed.
"Oh? And what did you do?"
Veer shifted his weight, glancing around the room like the furniture might co to his rescue.
"Sweeping," he mumbled, avoiding her eyes.
Kaya took a long, deep breath. The kind that only delayed the explosion by three seconds.
Only she knew how much willpower it took that day not to strangle him.
Her house—her quiet, well-kept sanctuary—had, over the last few days, turned into sothing that resembled a wild teenager’s den. There was always a ruckus. Sothing falling. Sothing breaking.
Always followed by her voice, cutting through the air like a whip:
"I’ll kill you, you bastard!"
"Do not touch that—Veer!"
"Put that down! Now! That is not for sitting!"
The walls probably had trauma by now.
Instead of peaceful conversations or calm household chores, the soundtrack of her life had beco pure chaos—with her doing all the shouting, and him being the clueless target of it all.
But after four dead-serious hours of sweeping, shouting, reorganizing, and re-catching one stray rooster, the room was finally clear again.
Silent. Almost suspiciously so.
Kaya stood in the center, arms crossed, watching Veer like he might explode a bowl just by looking at it.
Veer, to his credit, just gave her a thumbs up.
She nearly snapped again.
But one thing kaya had to accept.
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