God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem - Chapter 839

Chapter 839: Even Ice Melts Over Time

Kafka stepped out into the corridor, still stretching his arms when the sound of faint voices drifted down from above. It wasn’t laughter or the usual loud banter—these voices were soft, melodic, almost serene.

He blinked, curiosity piqued, and followed the sound.

He ascended the stairs quietly until he reached the rooftop terrace, where the morning breeze brushed against him. The moment he stepped through the archway, the sight before him was enough to make him pause.

The terrace had been transformed into a little paradise—lush vines coiling up carved trellises, vegetables sprouting from wooden beds, flowers curling along the edges of stone railings. Dew shimmered on every leaf.

It was Abigaille and Olivia’s terrace garden, their pride and joy—though today it seemed only Abigaille and Evangeline were tending to it.

They stood side by side near a cluster of potted plants, the early light catching on their hair.

Abigaille had that bright, patient smile she always wore when she was teaching something dear to her heart.

“I get it, Evangeline, I really do.” She said, hands resting on her hips. “But still, you’re missing one very important thing.”

Evangeline’s golden hair shimmered faintly in the sunlight as she tilted her head, brow furrowing.

“Missing one thing? I’ve followed everything you told me. I’ve bought all the books, I’ve read them twice, I’ve added the right fertilizers in the exact ratios, I’ve watered on schedule—”

“I know, I know.” Abigaille interrupted with a gentle laugh. “But even if you follow every step perfectly, there’s always a chance a plant can fail to grow. You have to be ready for that.”

Evangeline blinked thoughtfully.

“I see…yes, Olivia did mention that to me. There is always a small percentage of failure in any growth process.” Her voice softened, genuinely curious. “But is there any way to reduce that percentage? To make sure the plant stays alive?”

Abigaille puffed her chest proudly, her whole face lighting up. “Of course there is!”

Kafka watched from the stairway, amusement tugging at his lips. That tone, he knew it too well. It was the “listen to mother” tone she used whenever she was about to deliver one of her trademark pearls of wisdom.

Abigaille continued. “A plant doesn’t just need nutrients, fertilizer, and sunlight. There’s something else, a special ingredient most people forget about.”

Evangeline leaned forward slightly, intrigued. “A special ingredient?”

“Yes.” Abigaille said with a sparkle in her eyes. “It’s love, Evangeline…It’s love!”

Evangeline blinked once. Then again. “Love?”

“That’s right!” Abigaille nodded vigorously, pointing a finger as if delivering gospel. “If you don’t pour love into your plants, they’ll never truly grow strong. You have to talk to them, care for them, make them feel wanted.”

Evangeline stared, utterly baffled.

“But…I don’t think the plants of this world are sentient.” She said seriously. “In other realms, yes, there are species that can walk, talk, even reproduce like intelligent beings…But here? They’re…plants. They don’t have minds. I’m not sure they can even comprehend affection, unless I’m mistaken.”

Abigaille giggled, shaking her head.

“Oh, silly girl! I’m not saying they can understand like we do. It’s not about that. It’s about the energy you give off.” She cupped her hands around a small sprouting orange tree. “You see, even if they can’t hear or think, they feel. Just like a baby in its mother’s belly can feel the warmth and kindness around it, even before it has ears to listen.”

Evangeline frowned faintly, glancing between Abigaille and the plant. “Energy…” She murmured.

“Yes.” Abigaille said, her tone turning soft and earnest. “When you fill the air around them with kindness, the life force responds. Positive energy helps things grow, love makes the roots stronger, the leaves greener, the fruits sweeter.”

From his spot near the doorway, Kafka couldn’t help smiling. That was so like Abigaille, her endless belief that love could make anything bloom.

Evangeline considered this for a moment, her eyes narrowing in thought. “I…see. If that’s the case, then I can summon the God of Love, Amora from above to bless the garden and fill it with her divine presence.”

Hearing this, Abigaille’s eyes widened, then she burst out laughing.

“No, no, no! You don’t need to go that far!” She waved both hands. “Just follow what I do.”

Before Evangeline could protest, Abigaille crouched beside the pot and leaned in close to the small orange tree. Her voice turned gentle and melodic.

“Good morning, my little darling~” She cooed. “You’re growing so fast! Look at those pretty leaves. You’re going to become such a big, strong orange tree, aren’t you? Yes, you are! And you’re going to grow the sweetest oranges in the world, because you’re loved.”

Evangeline blinked, dumbstruck.

Abigaille then looked up, beaming. “See? Just like that. Now you try.”

Evangeline hesitated, her cheeks coloring faintly. “That seems…unnecessary.”

Abigaille arched a brow, her smile turning mischievous. “Oh? So you don’t want your oranges to grow delicious and juicy?”

That hit the mark. Evangeline froze for a moment, then slowly knelt beside her, lips tightening with reluctant resolve.

“Fine.” She muttered.

“That’s the spirit!” Abigaille clapped her hands excitedly. “Now, go on, say something nice to your little plant.”

Evangeline leaned in stiffly, her voice awkward at first.

“I…appreciate your existence, small one. Please grow healthy and—”

“No, no, no! Not like that” Abigaille pouted. “Say it like you mean it. With love!”

Evangeline inhaled sharply, flustered, then tried again. Her words came haltingly at first, but grew softer as she spoke.

“I…I love you.” She whispered, cheeks glowing pink. “Please grow tall and bear sweet fruit. I want you to become a proud, strong tree. The best orange tree in the world. Could you please do that for me?”

“Perfect!” Abigaille clasped her hands together with a delighted squeal.

Watching from the doorway, Kafka had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud.

The sight of stoic, divine Evangeline—kneeling in front of a potted orange tree, whispering sweet encouragements to it like it was her child, was almost too much for him to handle.

But there was a reason behind it, one that made perfect sense once you knew her.

Ever since arriving in this world, Evangeline had developed what could only be described as an obsession with orange juice.

It all began innocently enough, the first night Kafka had offered her a glass. She’d taken one sip, paused mid-swallow with a strange sparkle in her eyes, and from that moment, she was hooked. Completely. Irrevocably.

Since then, orange juice had become her daily ritual.

Morning, noon, and sometimes even in the middle of the night, she’d be sipping quietly from her cup.

In fact, Kafka had lost count of how many bottles she’d gone through.

Half their refrigerator was now dedicated entirely to her stockpile of juice, rows upon rows of shining orange bottles stacked with military precision. It got to the point where Kafka seriously considered buying a second fridge just for her.

But it didn’t stop there.

Oranges became her universal favorite. Cakes, pastries, candies, anything that even hinted at citrus flavor, she’d devour with the same unshakable calm expression.

During meals, no matter what was served, she always had a glass of orange juice at her side like a child who refused to eat without her favorite drink.

And while she tried to appear as composed as ever, Kafka often caught glimpses of her sitting by herself with that little cup in hand, sipping slowly, eyes half-lidded in contentment.

It was disarmingly cute, enough to make even Kafka’s stone heart feel warm.

So when Abigaille had announced that she’d bought orange saplings to grow on the rooftop garden and asked if Evangeline wanted to help, the response had been immediate.

The usually indifferent Evangeline had practically leapt from her seat, eyes shining, hands clasped, agreeing before Abigaille could even finish her sentence.

It was the first time anyone had ever seen her look excited about anything.

And to her, it wasn’t just gardening, it was a sacred endeavor.

She took it seriously, tending the soil with precision, watering on a perfect schedule, and often standing over the pots as if performing a silent prayer. She even forbade anyone from using any divine shortcuts, insisting that the natural growth was what made the oranges taste so pure.

To her, this was an act of patience, of faith.

Kafka had come to expect it by now—the sight of her checking the saplings each morning, brushing soil from the leaves with gentle fingers, her usually emotionless face softened by a quiet pride.

And yet, even knowing all that, seeing her actually talk to the plants like a doting mother praising her children was just too much. Kafka couldn’t help himself.

A low snicker escaped his lips before he could stop it.

And hearing this, Evangeline froze.

Slowly, her head turned, her golden eyes narrowing when she saw Kafka standing at the doorway, one hand clamped over his mouth as his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

Her cheeks darkened immediately.

“Kafka…” She said slowly, her tone dropping several degrees. “You were watching me?”

He tried—oh he tried, to straighten his face, but the moment he met her glare, he lost it again.

“I, I’m sorry, Evangeline, I just, ‘Please grow up strong and become delicious’, hahaha! I couldn’t—”

Her expression twitched, just slightly, and without warning, her hands rose.

A dozen black, swirling spheres of divine energy formed around her, each one pulsing with enough power to vaporize a city. The rooftop air crackled, the vines trembling from the raw energy radiating off her.

Seeing this, Kafka froze mid-laugh, hands raised instinctively.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, okay, easy there, don’t—”

But before she could unleash celestial annihilation—Abigaille leapt forward and wrapped her arms around Evangeline from behind.

“Evangeline, calm down!” Abigaille pleaded, pressing her cheek against the goddess’s shoulder. “He didn’t mean anything by it! Don’t do something drastic!”

Kafka, realizing how close he was to getting vaporized, nodded frantically. “Yeah! I was just, uh, admiring your technique!”

Abigaille shot him a glare. “You’re not helping!”

But Evangeline wasn’t listening. Her eyes narrowed, the nebulas pulsing brighter.

Seeing that it wasn’t working, Abigaille quickly switched tactics, eyes darting toward the orange pots.

“Evangeline!” She cried, voice rising. “If you use your powers here, your plants will die! Do you want that to happen?”

Everything stopped.

The air went dead still. The glowing spheres flickered once, and then vanished completely.

Evangeline’s head whipped toward the pots, scanning them in panic. When she saw that the plants were unharmed, she exhaled in visible relief. Her hands dropped to her sides, shoulders relaxing.

“Thank god…I thought a full blown war was about to break out, especially if Vanitas were to know what happened.” Abigaille exhaled, smiling weakly.

Then, with a sigh, she turned and poked Kafka on the chest. “You really had to taunt her, didn’t you, Kafi? She was just minding her own business, and you had to start bullying her the moment you woke up!”

Kafka looked unapologetic.

“I can’t help it.” He said with a lazy grin. “Evangeline getting all worked up like that, she’s just too adorable. Look at her. She’s pouting over plants.”

That earned him another sharp glare from Evangeline, who crossed her arms.

“I was going to share the orange juice with everyone once the trees matured.” She said coldly. “But I’m…rethinking that now. You, Kafka, are getting none.”

“Oh no! Not the orange juice!! What am I gonna do without it?!?!”

Kafka chuckled sarcastically. But Seraphina who didn’t understand the sarcasm, nodded her head saying,

“Yes, that’s what you get for laughing at my efforts…I’ll maybe give you a sip if you apologise to my and my plants.”

He smirked at this, whispering under his breath. “Damn, she doesn’t understand how adorable she is.”

Abigaille also giggled beside him. “Honestly, I can’t even blame you this time, Kafi” She said teasingly. “When she reacts like that, even I want to tease her a little.”

“Abigaille…” Evangeline’s eyes narrowed in betrayal.

Abigaille gasped, realizing her mistake, and hurriedly backtracked, waving her hands.

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that! I’m on your side, Evangeline! Really! Kafka’s the bully here, I’d never tease you!”

And the entire sight—Abigaille trying to comfort her, Evangeline stubbornly averting her gaze—made Kafka’s grin widen helplessly.

In that quiet moment of watching them, Kafka couldn’t help but think about how much Evangeline had changed since joining his household.

When she’d first arrived, she was every inch the celestial being—distant, reserved, composed to the point of coldness…But now?

Now she stood there with a faint sulk in her expression while Abigaille fussed over her like an overprotective sister.

There was an ease between them that had grown slowly but surely, one built from countless soft mornings and patient conversations.

Abigaille, being the gentle, talkative soul she was, had taken to rambling about everything—house chores, her garden, her cooking experiments, the animals she’d met that day.

And Evangeline, though she rarely said much in return, would always listen, quietly, attentively, like Abigaille’s every word was worth treasuring.

Their dynamic had become oddly soothing: Abigaille’s warmth filling the silence, and Evangeline’s calm turning it into comfort.

And it wasn’t just Abigaille who got close to Seraphina, but the other’s as well.

When it came to Olivia, the connection was different—born of mutual curiosity and shared patience.

The two bonded over their shared love of tending the plants, especially the orange saplings they’d both nurtured together. Olivia had been the one to teach Evangeline about soil care, about sunlight and moisture balance—even lending her a stack of well-thumbed books about botany.

Kafka would often find the two of them kneeling side by side in the rooftop garden, quietly studying the leaves, the air filled with the soft rustle of turning pages and Olivia’s cheerful humming.

Bella’s relationship with Evangeline, on the other hand, was the most surprising.

The younger girl practically idolized her. She’d follow Evangeline everywhere, calling her “big sis” dragging her off on shopping trips or to try out new hairstyles.

Evangeline rarely refused, though she maintained her usual aloof dignity as she was led through boutiques or forced to hold up dresses for Bella’s opinion.

But despite her usual stoicism, Kafka had once caught her smiling, just a faint, fleeting curl of her lips, while Bella giggled beside her, arms full of shopping bags.

Bella had even once confessed that she’d always wanted a cool older sister, and in Evangeline, she’d finally found one.

Then there was Camilla.

Their bond was one of quiet intellect. They often spent their afternoons together over tea, discussing philosophy, history, or classical poetry, an endless exchange of sharp wit and insight.

Camilla’s refined tastes found a match in Evangeline’s divine wisdom, and the two would often lose track of time, debating abstract ideas as the sky shifted from gold to indigo.

Kafka once joked that if he left them alone for too long, they’d end up rewriting the moral code of the world, and neither denied it.

And lastly…there was Nina.

Evangeline’s greatest trial.

If Abigaille was gentle and nurturing, and Olivia was serene and patient—Nina was chaos wrapped in laughter.

She’d burst into a room like a storm, full of energy and volume, throwing an arm around Evangeline before the poor goddess even had time to react.

Evangeline would always try to maintain her distance, muttering that Nina was ‘overly invasive.’

But somehow she always ended up being dragged into whatever mad adventure Nina had planned that day, whether it was a race in the garden, a spontaneous trip to town, or “just five minutes” of something that somehow turned into hours.

And yet, for all her sighing and stoic protestations, Kafka had noticed that Evangeline never really resisted. And when Nina wasn’t looking, there was a softness in her gaze, a reluctant fondness, even affection.

Watching the way all those ties had woven themselves around her, Kafka couldn’t help but feel a quiet pride.

She had truly become one of them.

A part of his family.

Thank You thimaien and Wandrer for the Golden Tickets