Afternoon

Klein had to admit, his mind was wandering a bit.

Not the kind of distraction that came from a failed magic experiment, but another kind—his mind was acutely clear, yet all his attention was drawn to the person beside him.

Ophelia's waist was very slender. Normally hidden beneath her clothes, its outline could only be vaguely guessed.

Now, with his palm pressed firmly against it, he realized her waist tapered even more narrowly than he had imagined.

Her collarbones were sharp and defined, and the curve of her shoulder blades was firm and distinct, a silhouette honed by years of wielding a sword.

Yet her skin was unexpectedly soft. Especially at her waist—the moment his fingertips touched it, Ophelia shivered, a slight tremor that ran from her waist all the way to her shoulders.

That reaction was far greater than any she'd shown when facing sirens on the west coast.

Klein's hand paused. Not because he was startled, but because he worried she might be uncomfortable. In the darkness, he couldn't see her expression, so he had to rely on touch—the rise and fall of her abdomen quickened slightly with her breathing, but her body wasn't stiff, nor did she push him away.

So his hand moved forward a little more.

What happened next was difficult to describe in words.

Nothing was visible in the darkness; all senses were magnified several times over.

Breathing grew loud, temperatures turned scorching, and every touch felt as if it had been slowed down, branded into memory frame by frame.

The fragmented sounds that occasionally escaped Ophelia's throat were intermittent, as if muffled yet still leaking out.

She was usually so decisive and articulate, yet at a time like this, she couldn't even form a complete sentence.

Klein felt his own heartbeat must have been audible to her.

Then there was her left hand.

That left hand, which she had always hidden and covered, its cuff perpetually pulled down to the base of her fingers, suddenly reached for Klein's back at some point.

Cool scales pressed against his spine, their rough texture spreading across his skin, and her nails dug into his shoulder blade—the force was not light, causing Klein a twinge of pain.

However, Klein didn't mind, because the one truly in pain enough to let out a soft moan was, of course, the woman before him...

The night was filled with soft murmurs, and the room with the scent of heather.

Outside the window, a wind had risen at some unknown time, rustling the rose bushes in the courtyard. Their faint fragrance seeped through the curtain's crack, mingling with the unique scents of the two people in the room, creating an indescribable aroma.

At some point, the two of them finally fell into a deep sleep.

...

When he opened his eyes again, the light filtering through the curtain's crack was no longer the morning sun.

It was yellowish, low-angled, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Tiny dust motes floated lazily in the light beams, as if the afternoon itself had no intention of rushing.

It was afternoon.

Klein blinked, his mind still a bit foggy. He stared at the wood grain on the ceiling for a while before slowly recovering—the thickest line looked like a winding river, and he followed its path for a long time before remembering where he was.

Then his memories returned.

Frame by frame.

He slowly turned his head.

Ophelia was still asleep.

This was rare. Usually, she woke first. Whenever Klein opened his eyes, the Knightess would already be fully dressed, sometimes even having completed a round of sword practice in the courtyard. Today, it was the opposite.

She lay on her side, facing him, one hand tucked under the pillow, the other—her left hand—resting on the sheet between them.

It hadn't been pulled back.

Nor was it hidden.

Her fingers were slightly curled, a posture of complete relaxation.

The black scales shimmered with a dull luster in the afternoon light, like pebbles polished by water on a riverbed. There was a blurry demarcation line between the edge of the scales and her normal skin; from this angle, the line extended from her wrist to her fingertips, as if someone had drawn an unfinished painting on her hand with an incredibly fine brush.

Klein watched her for a while.

He watched very intently.

Her complexion was much rosier than usual, and her lips were a deeper shade, as if stained.

While asleep, her brows were completely relaxed, devoid of the constant alertness she usually maintained—that readiness to draw her sword at any moment was entirely absent.

Her hair was spread across the pillow, golden strands tangled wildly, with a few clinging to her neck, dampened by a light sweat, glowing with a soft gold in the light.

The blanket wasn't pulled up properly.

Everything above her collarbones was exposed.

There was a small bruise on her shoulder—Klein stared at that spot for two seconds, his ears growing warm, and then averted his gaze.

He had left it there.

The Knightess was naked at the moment, her shapely figure subtly revealed beneath the blanket.

Her breathing was steady and deep, her chest rising and falling gently with each breath, a very small, quiet movement.

Klein suddenly felt a little proud.

Just a little.

That—how should he put it—that pride of 'I'm the only one in the world who has seen her like this.'

It wasn't boastfulness, nor possessiveness, but a very private satisfaction, belonging solely to him.

He carefully pulled the blanket up, covering her shoulders.

His movements were light, like transferring an unstable alchemical solution in a laboratory.

Ophelia's eyelashes fluttered.

She didn't open her eyes. Her brow furrowed slightly, a muffled hum escaped her nostrils, and she rubbed her face into the pillow, shrinking back into the covers.

The hum had a lingering, soft tail, completely unlike her usual speaking tone.

Klein watched her for two seconds, unable to suppress the curve of his lips.

He quietly got out of bed, retrieved his sleeping robe from the chair back, and put it on. As he tied the sash, he glanced back—only relaxing once he confirmed she hadn't been woken.

He poured a glass of water, took a couple of sips, then stood by the window, lost in thought for a moment. The roses in the courtyard were swaying haphazardly in the wind, their petals scattered across the flagstone path in pink and white fragments, unswept.

The steward and maids, to their credit, hadn't knocked all morning.

Klein yawned.

Still sleepy. He had gone to bed too late last night—or, more accurately, the time he fell asleep could no longer be called 'late,' but 'early.' He rubbed the back of his neck, where a faint scratch mark still lingered, aching slightly when touched.

She had left it there.

Klein touched the mark; he didn't feel pain, but the corner of his mouth curved up again.

“Alright, I'll lie down for a bit longer.”

He turned and walked back to the bed, preparing to lie down—

His spot was gone.

Ophelia had, at some unknown point, rolled over, migrating from her side of the bed past the midline, her head now resting on his pillow.

She had taken over quite thoroughly.

It made him wonder if she had done it on purpose.

Klein stood by the bed, looking down at the Knightess who had completely annexed his territory, momentarily at a loss for words.

Klein walked around to the other side, lifted the corner of the blanket, and lay down on his side behind Ophelia. There wasn't much space; he had to curl up a bit to barely fit.

As soon as he settled down, Ophelia moved.

She leaned back, her back pressing against his chest, her movements as natural as instinct.

Klein froze for a moment.

Then he heard her mumble something, her voice muffled by the pillow, indistinct.

“...Don't go.”

It was probably those words. Or maybe not.

Klein didn't move. After a few seconds, he raised his arm, wrapped it around her waist, and rested it on her forearm.

Her left hand was there. Her fingers were slightly curled, the scales cool to the touch, resting against his palm.

Klein closed his eyes.

The scent of roses wafted in waves through the window crack.

It was good.

He thought.

This afternoon truly didn't need to rush.

...

The sunlight had moved a few more finger-widths across the wooden floor.

When Ophelia opened her eyes, her gaze was fixed on a strand of golden hair at the edge of the pillow—her own. She remained in her side-lying position, the temperature under the covers much warmer than usual, and the warmth pressing against her back reminded her that another person lay behind her.

His breath brushed against the back of her neck, even and with a faint, almost imperceptible sigh.

Fragments of last night surged back without warning—her own shivers when his fingertips grazed her scales, the heat of skin against skin, the impossibly light touch of his lips on her wrist, and the sounds she had made amidst the chaotic breathing.

Sounds she couldn't suppress.

Memories, like hooks, pierced her one after another, making her scalp tingle and the temperature on her face rise at an uncontrollable pace.

She could even feel Klein's gaze resting on the back of her neck. The sensation of being watched was very specific, like the tip of a feather gently touching her skin, ticklish.

“Awake?”

Klein spoke. His voice was husky with sleep, deeper than usual, sounding slow, as if he hadn't fully shaken off slumber.

Ophelia's throat tightened. She had intended to respond with her usual composure, a crisp 'Awake' as she would to a subordinate on the training ground, but the words, as they reached her lips, took a turn through her throat, emerging as a muffled hum.

“Mm.”

She buried her face deeper into the blanket, her nose pressing against the pillow, trying to hide the heat on her cheeks that she simply couldn't suppress.

A thick silence descended upon the room. The rustle of the curtains in the wind was magnified at this moment, as if someone were lightly scraping fabric with their fingernails. Klein didn't speak or move. He simply lay quietly behind her, his breathing steady, as if nothing had happened.

But Ophelia knew he was watching her.

This silent gaze, devoid of any pressure, made her feel more exposed than any words could.

She shifted her shoulders, wanting to change position. The blanket slipped an inch, and the cool air touching her bare skin made her realize she was wearing nothing.

Images of intertwined bodies from last night exploded in her mind once more.

“You—” Ophelia cleared her throat, trying to keep her tone steady.

“Could you step out for a moment? Please?”

The mattress behind her shifted; Klein seemed to have rolled over, his movements unhurried, not at all rushed.

“What's wrong?” His tone was gentle, with that lazy, just-woken inflection. But Ophelia's ears were sharp—she detected a hint of a smile hidden at the end of his words.

Very faint. But it was there.

“I need to get dressed.” Ophelia gritted her back teeth.

Saying it out loud was still too embarrassing.

Klein didn't tease her this time.

He rose briskly, bare feet padding on the thick carpet. As he passed the head of the bed, his fingers lightly tapped the top of her head, where her hair peeked out from the blanket—just once, as if incidentally, yet also deliberately.

“Alright, I'll wait for you in the corridor. No rush.”

Those last two words were spoken very softly.

The sound of the door closing was also very soft.

Listening to his footsteps gradually fade down the corridor, Ophelia abruptly threw off the blanket and sat up. A cool breeze washed over her, making her shiver slightly, then she irritably ran her hands through her hair. Golden strands tangled messily in her fingers, impossible to smooth out.

She looked down at herself—she was wearing nothing. Below her collarbone was a small patch of redness, and on the inside of her arm as well. She stared at these marks for two seconds, and the temperature in her face rose another notch.

She stepped barefoot onto the floor, the wood warmed slightly by the sun.

The nightgown had been prepared in advance, but after the events of last night, both of them had forgotten about it.

The sound of fabric rubbing against skin echoed in the silent room. As she wrestled with the intricate row of buttons, she kept an ear out for any movement outside the door—the corridor was quiet; Klein hadn't made a sound, likely genuinely waiting patiently.

Her hand, accustomed to wielding a heavy sword, now seemed somewhat clumsy as it fumbled with the tiny pearl buttons.

Her right thumb and forefinger pinched the button, trying to guide it into the buttonhole, but missed twice.

She glanced down—the buttons were pearl white, and the buttonholes were sewn with matching silk thread; in this light, the boundaries were indistinguishable.

She took a deep breath, slowed her movements, and fastened them one by one.

After an unknown amount of time, she finally smoothed out her skirt and even casually tied her messy hair back into a simple ponytail.

After tying it, she glanced in the vanity mirror—her collar was still a bit crooked, and the redness on her neck hadn't fully faded, but at least she didn't look quite so disheveled.

“You can come in now.”

She called out to the door. Her voice was a little higher than she expected, carrying a lingering energy that was a mix of embarrassment, annoyance, or something else entirely.

The door pushed open.

Klein leaned against the doorframe, his sleeping robe's collar loose, his hair untidy, looking even more casual than her. His gaze lingered for a moment—truly just a moment—on her slightly disheveled collar, then naturally shifted to her face.

“Good afternoon, Ophelia, my wife.”

Ophelia's earlobes flushed hot.

She knew he was doing it on purpose.

Yet, after saying it, he just leaned there, looking innocent, patiently waiting for her reaction.

Ophelia pressed her lips together.

She straightened her posture, chin raised slightly, meeting his gaze:

“Good afternoon, Klein, my husband.”