The desk was a lost cause—papers scattered like fallen leaves, the broken teacup lying in porcelain shards on the floor, forgotten.

  Wriothesley had Clorinde pinned against the edge, one hand braced beside her hip, the other tangled in her silky hair as he kissed her like a man who had waited seven years and could wait no longer. Her Champion coat lay discarded on the couch; his shirt was half-unbuttoned, hanging open to reveal the scarred map of his chest. Her legs were hooked around his waist, pulling him closer until there was nothing between them but heat and fabric and the desperate rhythm of their breathing.

  His mouth left hers to trail down her throat—open, wet, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. Her nails dug into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks. She arched—instinctive, helpless—hips rocking against his in a slow, torturous grind that dragged a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest.

  They were drowning.

  Then—

  Clorinde’s eyes snapped wide.

  “Wrio—stop.”

  The word was sharp, almost panicked.

  He froze instantly—lips still hovering over her pulse point, body locked in place. His head lifted slowly, eyes searching hers—dark, dilated, confused.

  “What—?”

  She pushed at his chest—gently, but firmly. “Stop. Just… stop.”

  He released her immediately—hands dropping to his sides, stepping back until there was a full foot of space between them. His breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling too fast, but he didn’t touch her again.

  “Did I—did I hurt you?” His voice cracked on the question, raw with sudden fear.

  Clorinde shook her head quickly, cheeks flaming.

  “No. No, you didn’t.” She dragged a hand through her hair, disheveling the neat ponytail even further. “It’s just—”

  She looked down at herself—coat gone, shirt half-unbuttoned, skin flushed and sensitive—and then back at him.

  “I prepared,” she said, almost indignantly. “For tonight. A lot. The clothes from Chiori. The perfume from Emilie. Everything. And I refuse to let it go to waste.”

  Wriothesley stared at her in awe.

  Then he laughed—low, breathless, disbelieving.

  “You’re stopping me… because you want to wear your new clothes first?”

  She crossed her arms—defensive, embarrassed, but determined.

  “Yes. I am.”

  He dragged both hands down his face, groaning.

  “You’re killing me, Clor.”

  She lifted her chin, defiant despite the blush.

  “I need to take a shower first. Properly. Then… we can continue.” Her voice getting smaller.

  He exhaled—harsh, shaky—and nodded.

  “Sure. I’ll lead you to the bathroom.” He turned, already moving toward the corridor. “Let’s go to my bedroom. The shower’s there.”

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  “Alright.” She huffed and followed along—then paused.

  “Or…” Her voice dropped, teasing, almost daring. “We could shower together.”

  Wriothesley stopped so abruptly he nearly tripped.

  He turned slowly—eyes wide, pupils blown, face scarlet.

  “CLO.RIN.DE.”

  She tilted her head, feigning innocence.

  “What? It would save time.”

  He made a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

  “I’m hanging on by a thread here,” he rasped. “If we shower together, there won’t be any continuing later. There’ll just be… ending. Very quickly. And very embarrassingly.”

  She laughed—soft, delighted.

  “Fine. You shower after me.”

  He exhaled like a man reprieved.

  “Thank the Archons.”

  He led her to the small bedroom—same bunk beds, same narrow space, now lit by a single warm hydro lamp. He gestured to the adjoining bathroom door.

  “Towels are in there. Soap, shampoo—everything. Take your time.”

  She stepped past him—close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest—then paused in the doorway.

  “You said you prepared something for me, right?” she asked softly. “I’d like to see it.”

  Wriothesley groaned again—longer this time, almost pained.

  “You’re being cruel, Clor. You’ll regret this later.”

  She smiled—small, wicked—and closed the bathroom door behind her.

  The moment the lock clicked, Wriothesley sank onto the bottom bunk, elbows on knees, head in hands.

  He was in hell.

  A very sweet, very torturous hell.

  He could hear the water start—soft hiss of the shower head, the faint splash as she stepped under the spray.

  His mind supplied every detail he didn’t want to imagine: water sliding over her shoulders, down her spine, tracing the curve of her waist, soaking her hair until it clung to her back like dark silk. He groaned again—muffled into his palms—and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

  Get it together. She’s just taking a shower. That’s all. Just a shower.

  His imagination refused to cooperate.

  He stood abruptly—paced—then sat again. Stood. Paced. Sat. Repeat.

  Finally, the water shut off.

  Silence.

  Then her voice—soft, muffled through the door.

  “Your turn.”

  The door opened.

  Clorinde stepped out—damp towel wrapped around her body, tucked under her arms, hair dripping dark trails down her shoulders and collarbone. Steam followed her into the room like a lover’s breath. The towel clung to her curves—short enough that it barely reached mid-thigh, long enough to preserve a shred of modesty.

  Wriothesley’s brain flatlined.

  She looked at him—violet eyes bright, cheeks flushed from the hot water—and smiled.

  “Your turn,” she repeated softly.

  He didn’t say anything. He stood—slowly, carefully, like a man walking through a minefield—and moved past her toward the bathroom. Their shoulders brushed. He inhaled sharply at the contact—skin still warm and damp—and she shivered in response.

  He closed the bathroom door behind him.

  Leaned against it.

  Groaned—low, tortured.

  Then looked at himself in the small mirror above the sink.

  His reflection stared back—eyes dark, pupils blown, cheeks flushed, breathing ragged.

  “This time,” he told his reflection firmly, “you take control. Don’t let her drag you into her pace. You’re a man. Act like it.”

  He pointed at himself—sternly—then immediately felt ridiculous.

  He stripped—quick, efficient—stepped under the cold spray, and let the water pound against his shoulders until his heartbeat slowed to something resembling normal. After cooling himself, he switched to a very hot water bath.

  When he emerged out of the bathroom—towel knotted low around his hips, steam billowing out behind him like smoke from a battlefield—Clorinde was waiting.

  She had changed.

  The midnight-rose nightgown from Chiori draped over her like liquid shadow—thin straps over her shoulders, silk clinging to every curve, hem brushing mid-thigh. The fabric caught the soft light and shimmered, turning her skin luminous. Her hair was still damp, loose waves falling over one shoulder. And the perfume—Emilie’s new blend—hung in the air like a spell: rosewood, vanilla, smoked amber, warm and intoxicating.

  Wriothesley stopped breathing.

  All rationality left him.

  He stared—openly, helplessly—as she stepped closer.

  The rose silk shifted with each movement, whispering against her skin. The neckline dipped low enough to reveal the delicate hollow at the base of her throat; the hem rode up slightly as she walked, revealing smooth thigh.

  She stopped in front of him—close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her body.

  “Do you like it?” she asked softly.

  He couldn’t speak.

  He could barely think.

  His hand lifted—slow, trembling—and brushed the strap on her shoulder. The silk was cool; her skin beneath it was warm. She shivered at the contact.

  “Clor…” His voice was wrecked. “You’re going to kill me.”

  She smiled—small, shy, triumphant.

  “Then die happy.”

  He groaned—low, broken—and pulled her close.

  Their mouths met—hard, desperate, hungry.

  The night continued.

  And this time—nothing stopped them.