Klein’s gaze swept past Ophelia and settled on the room.
Everything needed to be cleaned up.
Though the two of them had shown some restraint last night, they had still left plenty of traces behind.
And neither Klein nor Ophelia were the type of people who could comfortably allow servants to handle such things.
Especially the bedsheets.
Klein stole a glance at the bed and quickly averted his eyes.
On the white linen, near the center, was a small, dark red stain. It wasn't particularly large, but it stood out vividly against the pale fabric.
He didn't dwell on it. There was no need to dwell on such things.
Ophelia, however, instinctively followed Klein's gaze. Her eyes swept over the bed and lingered on that dark red spot for less than half a second—and then the tips of her ears turned bright red.
That crimson spread downward from the tips of her ears at a speed that couldn't be stopped. Her expression remained taut, her lips pressed into a thin line and her jaw clenched, looking for all the world as if she were preparing to face a charge on the training grounds.
But her ears betrayed her.
“Let's clean this up together,” she said, her tone clipped as she stepped forward.
Klein didn't stop her. He knew that stopping her now would be the same as telling her, "You don't need to worry about this," and "I know you're embarrassed." That would be more mortifying for her than cleaning the sheets herself.
The two of them stood on opposite sides of the bed and began to pull at the sheets.
Ophelia’s movements were efficient. Grasping the corner of the fabric with her right hand, she yanked it out from under the mattress in a few quick tugs. Klein was a step slower on his side; he had to untie the bed curtain sashes first, otherwise the fabric would get tangled and wouldn't budge.
“Don't pull on your side yet; it's caught over here.”
“Oh.” Ophelia let go.
She released the fabric abruptly, but then found herself with nowhere to put her hands. They hovered in mid-air for a moment before she lowered them awkwardly to her sides, her fingertips brushing against the hem of her nightgown.
The bedsheet lay slumped on the mattress, crumpled and messy as if it had survived a battle. The dark red stain was facing upward, positioned squarely in the middle between the two of them.
Neither of them spoke.
Ophelia’s hand gripped the corner of the fabric again, her fingers tightening until the linen beneath her pads was pinched into deep creases. Her gaze fell on that patch of color; she couldn't look away, yet she didn't want to see it, leaving her entirely stuck in place.
Klein, on the other hand, naturally finished untying the sash in his hand, coiled it twice, and tucked it onto the bed curtain hook. His movements were unhurried, and he even took the opportunity to straighten a lopsided pillow.
But he didn't touch the bedsheet.
It wasn't that he was afraid to touch it; he was waiting for her.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Ophelia’s hand gripping the fabric, her knuckles turning slightly white.
Ophelia knew perfectly well that he was waiting. This man was always like this—never rushing, never mentioning anything, simply handing over the power of choice and letting her decide whether or not to take it. In this particular situation, that kind of consideration was harder to handle than if he had just said something directly.
She let go of the fabric, and the corner snapped back, drooping limply over the edge of the bed.
“Are you folding it, or am I?” she asked, her tone flat, as if they were discussing what to have for dinner.
Klein looked up at her.
She was holding her expression steady, and if her ears weren't still red, he might have actually believed her.
“Together?”
“No need,” Ophelia rejected the idea immediately. Folding this sheet together would mean standing face-to-face with that dark red spot between them, four hands working over the fabric—the mere thought of it made the back of her neck burn.
“I'll fold it. You go open the window,” she added, giving Klein a logical reason to step away.
Klein didn't call her out on her little scheme. He nodded and turned toward the window, his pace slowing for a heartbeat as he passed her side.
Ophelia’s shoulders tensed in response.
But he did nothing, simply walking past.
Actually, he had originally intended to reach out and touch her hair. Her ponytail was tied a bit crookedly, likely done in haste in front of the mirror, and a stray lock had slipped from behind her ear to rest against the side of her neck. But on second thought, he decided against it. If he touched her now, she would probably jump like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
The window latch was pushed open, and the afternoon wind rushed in, carrying the scent of grass and earth, diluting the lingering, intimate atmosphere that belonged only to the two of them. Sunlight from outside spilled across the floor, casting a long patch of light where tiny dust motes danced in the beam.
Ophelia took advantage of this gap to act. She folded the sheet from both ends toward the middle with speed and precision, hiding the dark red stain within the layers of fabric in just a few movements. She held her breath as she folded, as if performing a task that required intense concentration—in truth, the level of seriousness she applied to folding the sheet was roughly equal to how she polished her sword.
The folded sheet was now a neat, square bundle in her arms, revealing nothing of what lay inside.
She stood there holding the sheet, suddenly unsure of where to take it.
The laundry room? If she carried this down the long corridor and happened to run into the steward or a maid—
“Give it to me.”
Klein had walked back at some point and was now standing before her, his hand extended, palm up.
He spoke casually, his tone devoid of any unnecessary subtext. It was as if what she held in her arms wasn't that specific bedsheet, but rather a finished book or an ordinary piece of clothing that needed washing.
Ophelia glanced at him.
His expression was normal—so normal that one couldn't find a single fault with it. But it was exactly this normalcy that made Ophelia feel, for some reason, that this man understood everything.
She handed the sheet over.
Their fingers brushed against the fabric for a brief, light moment. His fingertips were warm, and even through the layer of linen, that warmth traveled to her with unreasonable clarity. Ophelia withdrew her hand a fraction faster than usual.
Klein tucked the sheet under his arm and turned toward the door.
After a couple of steps, he suddenly spoke without looking back. “Ophelia, your buttons are misaligned.”
Ophelia’s footsteps faltered.
She looked down at herself.
They were indeed misaligned.
In the row of pearl buttons on her nightgown's collar, the second one had been pushed into the third buttonhole, causing everything below it to be out of place. As a result, the collar was gapped open in a crooked fashion, leaving a narrow slit where the fabric failed to meet, offering a faint glimpse of the skin beneath.
It was exceptionally pale.
But it wasn't entirely white. There were a few faint red marks on that patch of skin—not deep, looking like the traces left by the pressure of fingertips, or perhaps something else. In any case, they weren't something she had done to herself.
Ophelia’s fingers flew to the buttons, quickly undoing them and re-fastening them correctly.
She was absolutely certain now that even though Klein’s back was to her, he was definitely smiling. Not a blatant laugh, but the kind where the corners of the mouth are tucked in and the eyes are full of it. Having spent this much time with him, she knew him all too well.
“When did you see it?” she asked.
Klein reached the door, carrying the folded sheet in one hand as he turned his face slightly. “When I opened the door.”
When he opened the door.
That meant that from the moment she stood at the door calling for him, through the time they spent cleaning the bed together, to her folding the sheet, to her handing it to him—during that entire time, he knew her buttons were wrong.
And he hadn't said a thing.
Not a single word.
He had simply watched her maintain a cold, serious face while she carefully folded the sheet, carefully pretended nothing was wrong, and carefully upheld her dignity as a knight—all while her collar was crooked and those red marks were partially visible.
Ophelia fastened the final button, and her collar finally closed up tight without a gap.
She looked up.
Klein had already turned back and was pulling the door open. The afternoon light from the corridor spilled in, gilding his shoulders with a pale gold edge.
“Klein.”
He stopped.
“If you had said something sooner, I would have fixed it long ago.”
Klein tilted his head, thought for a moment, and replied with mock sincerity, “I thought you might want to discover it for yourself.”
The words were perfectly chosen, leaving no room for argument.
But Ophelia still felt that something was off.
She stared at the back of his head for two seconds and decided not to pursue it further. If she did, the only one who would end up embarrassed was herself.
Klein stepped out the door with the sheet, and the sound of his footsteps gradually faded down the corridor.
Ophelia stood in the center of the room and reached up to touch her collar. The buttons were perfectly aligned, the fabric smooth; everything was hidden from view.
Her finger lingered for a moment on the top button before she let go.
Her ears were still burning.
Rate on N.U.
