SS: It's Often Said Maids Know Best

Before the ward-light flickered, before the city stirred, Allen’s eyes opened to something he couldn’t name.

Something had shifted in the quiet—not a sound exactly, but a presence. The mint-sweet air of the room still hung around him, but the ward-light pulsed faintly, as if sensing movement.

He blinked groggily, eyes adjusting to the dim room. Across the floor, Protag-kun was already awake, stretching with a groan that sounded half-human, half-wounded animal. His blanket lay crumpled beside him, and his limbs moved stiffly, like someone who hadn’t slept well—or hadn’t slept at all.

He’s up early? Allen frowned. Back in the forest, he had practically needed divine intervention to get Protag-kun out of bed before noon. The guy once slept through a goblin raid and a thunderstorm. Seeing him up before sunrise felt like spotting a unicorn in a convenience store.

“You’re… up early?” Allen rasped, voice still rough from disuse.

Protag-kun grunted, rubbing his neck. “Everyone has to grow up one day.”

That was new.

Without another word, Protag-kun shuffled out, muttering something about water. When he returned, he carried a wooden bucket, sloshing faintly with cold spring water. His face was flushed — not from exertion, but something else. He avoided Allen’s gaze as he handed over a sponge.

“There's no running water in this place,” he mumbled. “You’ll have to sponge off. It’s what we’ve all been doing.”

Allen took the sponge, still blinking. “You… got this for me?”

Protag-kun shrugged, turning away. “Don’t make it awkward.”

It was weird. Allen had known him as a shut-in NEET—selfish, dramatic, allergic to responsibility. This version of Protag-kun, quietly fetching water and waking before dawn, didn’t fit.

“You okay?” Allen asked, voice low.

Protag-kun paused at the closet, hand on the latch. “I’m fine. Just hurry up. Mei’s bringing breakfast.”

He opened the closet and began rummaging through the hanging uniforms. The rustle of lace and cotton filled the room. Without turning around, he muttered, “No peeking.”

Allen blinked. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Just saying,” Protag-kun replied, voice muffled as he pulled the maid outfit over his head. “Boundaries.”

Moments later, the door creaked open and Mei stepped in, balancing a tray with practiced ease. Her maid uniform was crisp, her headband perfectly aligned, and the scent of honey-glaze clung to her like a signature.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she said, setting the tray down. “Rice porridge, extra ginger. Cinnamon insisted.”

Allen smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

He ate slowly, savoring the warmth. Mei chatted briefly, teasing Protag-kun about his crooked head piece before the group began to file out—Monica with her usual quiet grace, Miyu with a sleepy wave, Cinnamon squeaking from her shoulder like a tiny manager.

Protag-kun lingered just long enough to grab Allen’s empty bowl. “We’ll be downstairs. Try not to die.”

Then they were gone.

The room fell silent again, save for the soft hum of the ward-light and the distant clatter of dishes below. Allen lay back, the sponge still damp in his hand, the scent of ginger curling through the air.

The evening bell rang with a mellow chime, echoing through the stone corridors like a sigh. Downstairs, the Sugar Plum Café began to empty—patrons trickling out with full bellies and tired smiles, the scent of honey-glaze lingering in their wake.

Footsteps creaked up the stairs.

Monica, Mei, Miyu, Protag-kun, and Cinnamon entered the infirmary, their faces flushed, shoulders sagging. Mei carried a tray with a modest bowl of stew and a wedge of bread, her apron still dusted with flour.

“Dinner delivery,” she announced, setting it down beside Allen’s bed.

Allen pushed himself upright, wincing. “You guys look exhausted. Let me help—”

“Nope,” Mei said, pressing a hand to his chest and gently shoving him back into the pillow. “You’re still on bed duty. Eat, rest, repeat.”

He frowned, but the warmth in her voice made it hard to argue. They all sat around him, sharing bites from a second tray and trading quiet jokes. Cinnamon nibbled on a carrot stick, cheeks puffed out like a tiny furnace.

Allen watched them—the way Monica leaned back with her eyes half-closed, the way Protag-kun barely touched his food, the way Miyu kept glancing at him like she was checking for signs of improvement. They were tired. Not just physically—something deeper.

After supper, Protag-kun stood and stretched. “Alphabet time,” he muttered, heading toward the girls’ room with a notepad tucked under his arm. Mei followed, already reciting vowel sounds like a drill sergeant.

That left Monica, Miyu, and Cinnamon.

They returned after washing dishes and hauling water from the well, arms damp, sleeves rolled up. Without ceremony, Monica began unbuttoning her maid uniform, sighing as she peeled the fabric from her shoulders. Miyu followed suit, tugging at her collar with practiced ease.

Allen blinked. “Uh—what are you doing?”

Monica paused mid-button. “Getting ready for our sponge bath?”

Miyu tilted her head. “It’s bath time. What else would we be doing?”

Allen’s brain short-circuited. “In here? With me still in the room?”

The girls exchanged confused glances.

“But we’ve all bathed in here,” Miyu said, matter-of-fact. “Even Cinnamon. It’s not like we have a private bathhouse.”

Monica sniffed her armpit and grimaced. “I smell like greasy fat and regret.”

Cinnamon squeaked, then recoiled dramatically after accidentally catching a whiff. His face contorted into a tiny mask of horror.

Allen buried his face in his hands. “I just… I didn’t expect this.”

Monica raised an eyebrow. “You do know we’ve been bathing you all week, right?”

Allen froze. “What?”

Miyu nodded. “You were unconscious. We had to keep you clean. Everyone took turns.”

Allen’s mind reeled. “Everyone?”

“Mama, Monica, me, Protag-kun…” Miyu counted off on her fingers. “Even Cinnamon helped with your feet.”

Allen’s soul left his body. The mortification was hot, a physical heat that burned his ears and cheeks. He couldn't look at them. He pictured the old Protag-kun—selfish, dramatic, allergic to responsibility—and a new thought came to him: the old Protag-kun would have never done this.

Monica leaned in, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Wait… are you upset that Protag-kun didn’t bathe you the whole time?”

“What? No!”

Her grin widened. “You sure? You two alone, sponge in hand, steam rising…”

Allen groaned. “Monica, stop.”

But she was already lost in her own fujoshi fantasy, eyes sparkling with imagined drama. Cinnamon squeaked in protest, clearly not wanting to be part of whatever mental fanfic she was composing.

Allen turned toward the wall, pulling the blanket over his face. The sponge lay in the bucket beside him, still damp. He stared at it for a long moment.

They’d seen him at his most vulnerable. 

Earlier in the day, with the usual clatter of ceramic and the scent of root broth was when the healer came. A local patron of the cafe and the friend of the owner. His robes dusted with chalk and his fingers stained faintly with ink—signs of a morning spent tracing ward-slates.

Once he was finished with his meal, he visited Allen's room as a favor to check on the progress of his patient. It was a welcomed surprise to see that the boy was able to regain consciousness after the vicious Orc attack. Most would have perished from those terrible injuries. But even more so, from an Orc Lord no less.

The healer examined him with practiced efficiency, pressing gently along his ribs, checking the pulse at his neck, then stepping back with a nod.

“You’re healing well,” he said. “But the body forgets what it doesn’t use. Starting today, you’ll need to practice walking. Slowly. One step at a time.”

Allen nodded, jaw tight.

After the sponge bath, Monica and Miyu remained at his bedside, Cinnamon perched on Miyu’s shoulder like a tiny, judgmental coach. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the ward-light and the distant clink of dishes downstairs.

“Slow,” Monica warned, hovering like a nurse who’d skipped training but memorized the drama.

Allen gritted his teeth and pushed himself upright. His muscles screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet hovering just above the floor.

Then — contact.

He planted his feet, shaky but firm. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breath came in short bursts.

"You did it!" Miyu clapped, eyes wide with delight.

Cinnamon squeaked in celebration, tiny paws raised like pom-poms.

Allen gave a shaky nod, more to himself than anyone else.

Monica leaned in, her expression shifting from proud to clinical. “Now let's move to the more important question,” she said, voice low. “Can you pee?”

Allen blinked. “What?”

She leaned closer, whispering now. “You know. Like pee pee?”

His face turned crimson. “I’m fine.”

Monica didn’t budge. “Because if you’re not, we’ll need to call the healer again. Catheter reinsertion isn’t fun.”

“I said I’m fine!” Allen snapped, louder than he meant to.

The room froze.

Miyu flinched, Cinnamon ducked behind her collar. The silence that followed was sharp, brittle.

Monica raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Okay, okay. Someone’s on their period.”

Allen groaned. “Seriously?”

Miyu tilted her head. “Do magical girls get periods?”

Monica nodded solemnly. “Of course. It’s part of becoming a woman. Even magical girls have to deal with cramps, bloating, and emotional instability. It builds character.”

Miyu’s eyes lit up with sudden memory. “Mama said there are times she will get cramps before concerts. But she still dances and sings for her fans. Even when it hurts.”

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Allen, small and warm and sincere.

“I know it’s not the same,” she said softly. “But I think you’re being really brave.”

Allen’s breath hitched. The hug was unexpected, but it melted something inside him—the frustration, the embarrassment, the ache.

Miyu peeked back, still worried. “Will you be okay?”

Allen softened. “Yeah. Just… give me a minute.”

Monica lingered at the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. Her gaze flicked to Allen, unreadable. For a moment, it looked like she might say something.

Instead, she winked.

“Don't forget, if you need feminine hygiene products,” she said, “check the bottom drawer. And I’ll sneak you some extra protein next time.”

Then she was gone.