Developing a taste.
When that phrase popped into Klein's mind, even he was taken aback for a moment.
He suspected Ophelia felt the same way. However, she would never admit it. Even if she did, she would likely use a tone of "stating an objective fact," as if she were merely commenting that the weather was nice.
Fortunately, the two of them had maintained some semblance of reason this time—they hadn't carried on until the break of dawn like the first time, only to fall into a deep sleep until three in the afternoon, missing lunch and failing to answer even after Flora knocked on the door three times.
They were much more restrained this time.
Just a little taste.
Well... arguably a little taste.
If the definition of "a little taste" could be stretched a bit.
When she opened her eyes again, the light leaking through the gap in the curtains was already quite bright. The sun was high in the sky, but at least it wasn't setting. Significant progress. Worthy of praise.
Ophelia was the first to wake.
When she opened her eyes, it took her a few seconds to get her bearings. That patch of moonlight on the ceiling was long gone, replaced by a warm yellow glow from the sun. The light danced on the wood grain of the ceiling, swaying slightly as the wind stirred the curtains. She blinked twice as her consciousness slowly returned.
Her body reacted before her brain did.
Her shoulders were a bit sore. The muscles in her waist were reminding her of certain less-than-proper ways she had exerted herself last night. She instinctively moved her wrists—the right was fine, but the knuckles of her left hand felt stiff, and the fine scales between her fingers felt tight in the dry air.
The person beside her was still asleep.
Klein's breathing was heavy, his chin resting on the edge of the pillow, one hand draped outside the covers with his fingers slightly curled. He was a decent sleeper—no snoring, no wandering hands or feet.
Ophelia turned her head and watched him for a few seconds.
His eyelashes appeared slightly light brown in the sunlight, and there was a small red mark on the bridge of his nose where the pillow had pressed against it. The corners of his mouth drooped slightly; when he wasn't smiling, he looked like a very serious fellow.
She realized she had been staring at the corners of his mouth for a while.
Then she looked away.
Training could no longer be delayed. Yesterday had already been wasted; if she didn't move today, her feel for the blade would grow dull.
She was a knightess, not... not someone who would lose herself in such comforts.
The muscle memory of swordsmanship needed daily maintenance. This was a rule carved into her bones since her very first day of training.
She braced herself against the mattress, preparing to sit up.
She didn't get up.
A tug came from the back of her head. It wasn't particularly painful, but it was enough to halt her movement.
Her hair was trapped.
Klein's entire head was resting firmly on her spread-out long hair, pinning down a large section of it.
Golden strands fanned out from beside his cheek, extending all the way under his shoulder, held fast by the weight of his neck and the back of his head.
A few strands had even wound around his ear, as if someone had intentionally wrapped them there.
Of course, it wasn't intentional.
Ophelia tried to pull her hair out.
Carefully, she tugged it outward, bit by bit.
She gave it a pull.
Klein's head tilted along with it; instead of releasing her hair, he pressed down even firmer.
It was like a subconscious possessiveness—as she pulled away, he sank deeper.
Ophelia took a deep breath.
She looked down at that defenseless sleeping face.
His brow wasn't furrowed, his lips were slightly parted, and his breath hit the surface of the pillow, causing a small patch of fabric to rise and fall gently.
Completely oblivious.
She reached out her right hand.
Her finger poked him.
She poked his cheek. The force wasn't great, but the rhythm was steady. Poke, poke, poke. Her fingertip pressed into the soft part of his cheek, sinking in slightly with every touch.
Klein wrinkled his nose, muttered something incoherently, turned his head, and continued to sleep.
The content of his muttering was indistinguishable.
In all probability, it wasn't anything proper.
Ophelia increased the pressure.
This time, she poked the tip of his nose.
“Mm...”
Klein's eyelids fluttered but didn't open. His voice was muffled by the pillow, thick and sticky, sounding like someone who had been halfway pulled out of deep water only to sink back in.
“A little longer...”
Ophelia's finger stopped on the bridge of his nose.
“You're pinning my hair.”
“...Mm.”
He showed no intention of moving. Not only did he not move, but he seemed to sink down even further.
Ophelia poked him again, this time on the forehead. The tip of her nail tapped lightly just above the center of his brows.
“Klein.”
“Just let me sleep a little longer...”
He buried his face further into the pillow, his tone soft and whining. He dragged out the end of his words with a sense of righteous stubbornness. He lacked any of the backbone an adult man should possess.
Ophelia stared at him for a while.
The corners of her mouth moved. They curled upward—the curve wasn't large, but she was definitely smiling.
Once she realized this, she quickly pressed her lips back down.
Her expression returned to normal.
Her gaze fell on the half of his face buried in the pillow.
Then, she spoke with a feigned air of annoyance.
“Who was the one begging me for 'just one more' last night?”
“Now you can't even open your eyes.”
The moment the words left her mouth, the bedroom went silent for a beat.
A complete, distinct beat.
Not a sound could be heard. Even the sound of the wind stirring the curtains seemed to stop.
Ophelia's finger was still resting on his forehead.
Then, she realized what she had just said.
Those words were like a tape being rewound, replaying in her mind at slow speed. Every word was abnormally large, abnormally clear.
Begging me.
One more time.
Last night.
The speed at which the blood rushed to her head was absurd.
Starting from her neck. Then the base of her ears. Then her entire face.
It felt as if a basin of freshly boiled water had been poured over her head, scalding her from the surface of her skin all the way to her bones.
She wanted to take the words back.
She couldn't. Sound waves didn't support a recall function.
This time, Klein's eyes truly opened.
It wasn't that dazed, half-asleep opening. He was wide awake. It was as if a switch had been flipped in his brain, and all his dormant consciousness came online instantly.
He tilted his head, half his face still buried in the pillow, looking up at her from below.
The drowsiness in his gaze had mostly vanished. What remained was complicated.
There was the lingering dullness of just waking up. There was the realization that came after processing the keywords, slowly savoring them. And there was a burgeoning, improper glint of amusement hidden deep in his eyes.
That amusement was like an undercurrent beneath the surface of the water—it hadn't broken through yet, but you knew it was there.
Ophelia's face burned hot.
The temperature of her ears was unnaturally high. So high that she wondered if she had a fever. But she knew it wasn't a fever. A fever wouldn't only heat the ears.
She retracted the hand resting on his forehead. The movement was swift, as if she had touched a branding iron.
When did she become like this?
What had she just said?
Right to his face?
In that tone?
She rolled over, turning her back to him.
She pulled her hair.
This time she pulled quite hard. Her pinned golden hair was wrenched out from under his head, sending a sharp sting through her scalp. She didn't care. The pain was good. The pain helped clear her mind.
“Let go.”
Her voice was cold. At least, she felt it was cold. As for whether it actually sounded cold, she wasn't sure.
Klein finally lifted his head.
The golden hair that had been pinned down scattered back, brushing against his face. A few strands slid across the tip of his nose, carrying the faint, lingering scent of shampoo soap.
He looked at Ophelia's straight back.
And her bright red ears.
Those two ears were thoroughly red. Not a slight pinkish flush, but a blatant, unshielded red that burned from the auricle to the earlobe. They were exceptionally prominent amidst her golden hair.
Klein laughed out loud.
It was a soft laugh that rolled out from deep within his chest. It wasn't mockery or teasing; it was a sense of joy bubbling up from his heart that he simply couldn't control.
“Ophelia.”
“Don't call my name.”
She answered quickly. So quickly it was as if she had been waiting for him to speak.
He rolled over, lying on his side to face her back, cushioning his head on his bent arm.
“Your ears are red.”
Silence for three seconds.
A very long three seconds.
Ophelia suddenly yanked the covers over her head.
The movement was crisp and efficient, comparable to the speed at which she drew her sword. She curled up under the blanket, not even leaving the back of her head visible to him. She gripped the edge of the covers so tightly that they pulled into a straight line.
A muffled, indistinguishable sound came from beneath the covers.
The specific words couldn't be heard, but the tone carried a clear sense of threat. It was likely something along the lines of "Try saying one more word." Or perhaps "I'll kill you." It was hard to say.
Klein lay on the pillow, looking at the lump under the covers, unable to suppress his smile.
She had wrapped herself into a cocoon. Her back was slightly arched, the lines of her shoulders tense beneath the blanket, stubborn as could be. But the covers rose and fell slightly with her breath—once, twice—the frequency a bit faster than usual.
Klein reached out.
Through the covers, he patted the top of her head gently.
The force was light, like he was soothing a cat with bristling fur.
There was a movement beneath the covers.
Her shoulders flinched.
But she didn't move away.
Klein's hand remained on her head.
He thought about it, then patted her again.
This time, there was no movement under the covers.
The frequency of her breathing slowed down a little. Just a little.
He withdrew his hand, resting his head back on his arm, and lay on his side watching the lump of blankets.
Her training today would likely be a bit late again.
Rate on N.U.
