The Fortress checkpoint guard—a grizzled veteran named Moreau—straightened the moment he saw her silhouette emerge from the hiss of entrance gate. Champion Duelist Clorinde, in full black-and-silver regalia, sword and gun at her hips, ponytail swaying with each measured step. She carried a luggage, a satchel, only wearing her cold expression and determination.

  “Champion Clorinde, I welcome you to the Fortress,” Moreau greeted, voice low and respectful. “Are you here on official business?”

  Clorinde inclined her head once—calm, composed, every inch the unyielding blade of Fontaine.

  “Official consultation with the Duke,” she replied, tone neutral enough to pass muster. “Security protocol overview.”

  Moreau didn’t blink. He simply pressed the internal comm.

  “Your Grace, the Champion Duelist is here. Says it’s official.”

  A brief pause. Then Wriothesley’s voice—deeper than usual, edged with something Moreau couldn’t quite place.

  “Send her down.”

  Moreau gestured toward the lift.

  “Safe travels, Champion.”

  The doors closed. Clorinde exhaled—once, sharply—and allowed herself one small, private smile in the mirrored wall. The uniform had been deliberate: a shield, a pretext, a reminder to herself that she still belonged to duty even when she was about to surrender to desire.

  Wriothesley was waiting at the administrative level corridor, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like a man trying very hard to look casual. The moment the lift doors parted, his posture changed—shoulders dropping, breath catching, eyes darkening as they swept over her from boots to ponytail.

  “You came,” he said, voice low enough that only she could hear.

  “Didn’t I say I would.”

  He pushed off the wall and stepped closer—close enough that she could smell the fresh chamomile tea he drank, the faint metallic tang of the Fortress, the warm undertone that was simply him.

  “Official business?” he murmured, one brow lifting.

  Clorinde tilted her head, letting the faintest smirk curve her lips.

  “Very official.”

  He huffed a quiet laugh, then turned and led her down the corridor to his office. The door slid shut behind them with a soft pneumatic sigh.

  Clorinde paused just inside the threshold, taking in the changes.

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  The desk was clear—reports neatly stacked in trays instead of scattered. The greenhouse corner had been pruned and watered, mint leaves glossy under the lamps. The couch cushions were straight, a spare blanket folded precisely over the arm. Even the chipped teacup collection on the shelf looked polished.

  She turned to him, eyebrow arched.

  “You tidied up?”

  Wriothesley rubbed the back of his neck—classic tell.

  “I… might’ve straightened a few things.” He cleared his throat. “Didn’t want you to think I live like a slob.”

  Clorinde stepped closer, letting her gaze drift over him—rolled-up sleeves revealing scarred forearms, shirt slightly untucked.

  “It looks… nice,” she said softly. “Lived-in. But cared for.”

  He exhaled—shaky, relieved.

  She looked around once more.

  “Where’s Sigewinne?” she asked.

  “Night shift at the infirmary. She won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.” He paused, then added almost shyly, “She… knows you’re here. Told her it was ‘official consultation.’ She just smiled and said, ‘About time.’”

  Clorinde’s lips twitched.

  Wriothesley moved to the tea station—more to keep his hands busy than anything else.

  “Would you like a drink?” he offered, already reaching for the kettle. “I’ve got the lemon-rind blend you liked last time.”

  Clorinde crossed the room slowly—boots silent on the metal floor—and stopped right beside him. Close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm.

  “Teach me how,” she said quietly. “I’d like to do it for you next time.”

  Wriothesley froze.

  The kettle slipped an inch in his grip before he caught it.

  He turned his head—slowly—and found her looking up at him, violet eyes steady, lips parted just enough to show the faintest tremor of nerves beneath the confidence.

  “Clor…”

  She reached past him—deliberately brushing his chest with her arm—and picked up the small tin of loose leaves.

  “Show me,” she repeated, softer.

  He exhaled through his nose—harsh, unsteady—and set the kettle down.

  His hand covered hers on the tin. Warm. Rough. Trembling just slightly.

  “Like this,” he murmured, guiding her fingers to measure the leaves. “Two spoons for each cup. Then hot water—not boiling. Let it steep four minutes. No more, or it turns bitter.”

  Their hands moved together—slow, deliberate. His chest pressed lightly against her back as he leaned over her shoulder to watch. She could feel the heat of him everywhere—his breath on her ear, the hard line of his torso against her spine, the way his thumb stroked once across her wrist when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

  She noticed.

  She turned her head—just enough that her cheek brushed his jaw.

  Their eyes met—close. Too close.

  The kettle hissed behind them.

  Neither moved.

  Then Wriothesley made a low, broken sound in his throat and kissed her.

  Hard.

  Everything unraveled.

  Hands sliding under fabric—his under her coat, hers fisting in his shirt. Mouths open, hungry, tasting tea and want and seven years of restraint finally snapping. He lifted her onto the desk—papers scattering, a teacup wobbling precariously—and stepped between her thighs. She arched into him, legs hooking around his hips, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.

  The teacup finally tipped.

  It shattered on the floor—porcelain shards scattering like stars.

  Neither one cared.

  His mouth moved to her throat—open-mouthed, teeth grazing the pulse point that fluttered wildly under his lips. She gasped—sharp, needy—and her nails dug into his shoulders through his shirt. He groaned against her skin, hips rocking forward once—instinctive, desperate—and she answered with a small, helpless whimper.

  “Clor—”

  “More,” she breathed. “Please.”

  He pulled back just enough to look at her—eyes black with want, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

  “You sure?”

  She nodded—frantic, certain.

  He kissed her again—deeper, slower, savoring—and began unbuttoning her coat with shaking fingers.

  The night they had waited for had finally begun.