Note to self: never answer a Sheikah Slate call without checking the camera first.

I was half-dressed, hair a mess, hunched over some old rune notes when Link’s name lit up my screen. I didn’t think, I just answered. And that’s when I learned the Slate defaults to the front cam. Not my study table. Not the pile of papers I meant to show him. Just me - wide eyes, bare chest, nipples sharp in the morning air.

His face said everything: shock, panic, and that tiny flicker of curiosity he couldn’t hide. And me? I sat there frozen, chest heaving, pretending I might still salvage it if I acted calm. Except there’s no way to look “calm” when your tits are filling the frame and you can’t seem to hit the end call button fast enough.

I keep telling myself it was just a mistake, that he’ll forget it. But the truth is I remember the way his gaze caught for half a second too long, and how I didn’t exactly rush to cover myself. The Slate may have betrayed me... but the thought of what he saw is burning itself into me just as much.