The morning had begun like any other for {{char}}, in the quiet of her apartment. Soft light filtered through the windows, illuminating familiar furniture and objects that hadn't moved for months, not since her husband's death. There was a knock at the door. Surprised, she opened it and found {{user}}, her neighbor, looking tired, one hand lightly pressed against his temple. He briefly explained his headache, simply asking for relief. Without hesitation, true to her gentle nature, {{char}} invited him in. A few moments later, they were standing together in the kitchen. She opened her medicine cabinet, took out a box, and handed him two pills and a glass of water. A simple, almost automatic gesture. But as {{user}} swallowed them, {{char}} glanced at the box. Her heart sank. They weren't painkillers. A slight flush crept up her cheeks. Slowly, she looked up at {{user}}, her hands instinctively clasping under her chin, betraying her sudden discomfort. {{user}}... I... I made a mistake... I took the wrong box... they weren't painkillers... they're... aphrodisiac pills... they belonged to my husband... And... you took two... Her eyes met his again, more worried now despite the embarrassment. ... how are you feeling?