Ophelia woke up with incredible speed.
It wasn't because of any danger, but because something was pressing quite clearly against her thigh.
Her mind went blank for about two seconds.
In those two seconds, she completed a very thorough logical deduction—Klein was in front of her, Klein was awake, his eyes were looking at her, and considering the position and angle of that object, there was only one answer.
Ophelia's mind cleared.
Her body reacted faster than her brain. She jerked back suddenly, her spine hitting the wooden edge of the bedframe. The back of her head bumped it too, but the pain was secondary. The critical part of this retreat was that the blanket pulled taut.
Both of them saw something they shouldn't have.
Just one glance.
With that single look, her ears turned red first, then her neck, and then her entire face. The blush was thorough, burning all the way from her forehead to her chin.
She scrambled to wrap the blanket around herself.
The blanket was only so large; pulling it to cover one side exposed the other. She put in a great deal of effort to hide everything from her collarbone down, nearly tearing a hole in the fabric in the process.
The entire sequence of movements was fragmented and pathetic, nothing like the fluid grace with which she usually unsheathed her sword.
Klein didn't have a chance to speak the entire time.
Mainly because there was no opening. By the time he realized he should say something to ease the tension, Ophelia had already wrapped herself into a blanket cocoon. Only her face was showing.
That face was impossibly red. A layer of watery mist had formed in her golden eyes, born of both distress and extreme embarrassment.
Awkwardness and shame mixed together, driving the honorary knight of the Empire to this state.
“You rogue.”
Her voice was tight, the words squeezed out through gritted teeth. There was a sense of gnashing her teeth, but the strength wasn't there; her voice trailed off with a slight tremor, making her sound more like a cornered kitten than a threat.
Klein opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Timing was everything. At this juncture, saying a single wrong word could lead to the Knightess remembering it for the rest of her life.
He deliberated for two seconds, cleared his throat, and said in the most academic tone he could muster, “…This is a normal physiological phenomenon.”
A pause.
There was no movement from within the blanket cocoon.
He added, “It has nothing to do with willpower, nor does it have anything to do with thoughts. In the early morning, blood circulation accelerates, and internal hormone levels—”
“Don't use that nonsense to fool me.”
Ophelia interrupted him. Her voice was muffled by the blanket, but every word was clear.
Klein swallowed the rest of his sentence. He had a premonition that the direction of this conversation was about to take a turn for the worse.
And he was right.
Ophelia peeked half her face out from the edge of the blanket, her eyes glaring at him and the tips of her ears crimson. “There's… no such thing.”
She paused, her throat bobbing as if she were wrestling with certain words.
“I'm not blind.”
She regretted it the moment the words left her mouth, because it was tantamount to admitting she had looked more than once. The red on her face deepened another shade, but the words were out and couldn't be taken back. A knight's pride wouldn't allow her to retreat.
So, she braced herself and continued.
“You only…”
She stalled.
Ophelia stared fixedly at the spot where Klein's collarbones were, refusing to meet his eyes. Her lips pursed again and again. After struggling for several seconds, she squeezed the rest of the sentence out from between her teeth, one word at a time.
“It only becomes like that when you want to do… that kind of thing.”
She finished.
Her whole body shrank into the blanket, her chin burying into the edge. Only her stubborn golden eyes remained visible, like a rabbit that had stuffed itself into a hole, leaving only its ears outside.
Klein didn't know how to answer.
Strictly speaking, he knew how to answer—it was just that every possible answer led to a different kind of abyss.
Admitting it made him a rogue, denying it made him a liar, and explaining was like casting pearls before swine.
Three paths, and none of them seemed to be a way out.
The room remained silent for a long time.
The light filtering through the window gradually brightened, illuminating the half of Ophelia's face that was exposed.
In the morning light, the shadows of her eyelashes fell upon her cheekbones in a fine, trembling row.
She was still waiting for his response. Her gaze refused to back down, but the red on her cheeks wouldn't fade.
Her lips were pursed, her jaw buried in the blanket edge.
The silence lasted too long. Long enough that Ophelia's expression slowly shifted from embarrassment into something more complex—it seemed like she was pouting, or perhaps making some kind of resolution.
Her throat moved.
“Do you want me… to help you handle it?”
Her voice was suppressed, every word carefully controlled in an effort to maintain stability. But when the word “handle” came out, her voice cracked slightly, like a string stretched to its limit being plucked.
Klein's brain went “buzz.”
Two paths lay before him.
Path one: Be a noble gentleman. Tell her the truth, explain it clearly, and dispel her misunderstanding. The two of them would share an awkward laugh, get up to wash, and act as if this never happened.
Path two: Shut up.
He thought deeply about the first path.
Essentially, he hadn't done anything wrong, and he didn't need her help with anything. He could just get up, splash some cold water on his face, and it would subside on its own in ten minutes. There was absolutely no need for him to take advantage of his wife's lack of knowledge.
That was everything on the first path. Very correct, very honorable, very—
Very stupid.
Klein cursed himself in his mind.
Then he thought about the second path.
She was his wife. Recognized by law, witnessed by the temple, and the very same person who had been calling his name on this very bed last night—his genuine wife.
She had brought it up herself.
He hadn't forced her.
Who could criticize him? No one. Even if a priest from the temple came, they couldn't say a word against it. Which law or doctrine stipulated that a husband couldn't accept his wife's kindness?
None.
The scales in Klein's heart wobbled three times before settling firmly toward the second path.
“Yes.” His voice was steady, even carrying a hint of bashfulness that was perfectly measured. “…I'll have to trouble you, then.”
Ophelia clearly hadn't expected him to agree so readily.
A muffled, confused sound came from inside the blanket—she was likely startled by her own suggestion, perhaps having held the faint hope that he would refuse.
But Klein didn't leave her an out.
There was no movement in the blanket cocoon. For three whole seconds.
After those three seconds, the golden eyes above the blanket edge closed and then opened again, as if she were performing a final mental preparation. Then, slowly—extremely slowly—she loosened the blanket wrapped around her.
Just a little.
Just enough for her to stick one hand out.
It was her right hand.
Her fingertips were trembling slightly, but the direction of her movement was clear.
Klein watched her hand. A knight's hand—long, well-proportioned, with distinct knuckles—was now shaking like the last leaf of autumn. He suddenly felt his throat tighten.
It wasn't just because of desire—though that was certainly there.
It was because of her earnestness.
She really was trying to help him. She carried that same indomitable spirit a knight has when facing a mission; even if her face was red enough to burn, even if her hand shook like this, she didn't shrink back halfway.
This was likely the same expression she wore on the battlefield.
Klein reached out. Before her fingertips could touch him, he gently grasped her wrist.
Ophelia stiffened.
“No rush,” he said. His voice was very low and soft, as if afraid of startling something. His thumb brushed against the inside of her wrist—not heavily, just enough to feel her pulse—which was racing erratically.
Ophelia didn't speak. But he could see her throat bob, and her muscles under the blanket were pulled taut—not out of resistance, but tension. Pure, clumsy tension.
He couldn't help but curl the corners of his mouth.
Then, using the hand holding her wrist, he gently pulled her toward him. The sound of the blanket rubbing against the bedsheet was soft, yet exceptionally clear in the quiet room.
Ophelia followed his lead and leaned in, her blanket-wrapped body pressing against his chest once more. The distance returned to where it had been when they first woke. Her forehead was buried in the crook of his neck, her breath startlingly hot.
“Bad guy…”
The voice was muffled against his neck, terrifyingly soft. It didn't sound like an insult; it sounded more like acting spoiled, or perhaps a declaration of surrender—the total defeat of the honorary knight of the Empire, proven by her tone.
A sliver of guilt crept into Klein's heart.
It was thin and warm, just like the body pressed against him under the blanket—just the right amount of surreal.
He knew what he was doing. He was using the information gap, her trust in him, and her clumsy kindness to pave an honorable path for himself. To put it bluntly, he was bullying an honest person.
But the thing was—this honest person was his wife.
And her breath against his neck was too hot, the sensation of her eyelashes brushing his collarbone was too light, and the softness of her voice when she called him a “bad guy” was simply too much.
Klein admitted that at this moment, he had no desire whatsoever to be a noble gentleman.
He lowered his head, his lips touching the top of her hair, and his voice was soft and gentle. “Then—I'll leave it to the Knightess.”
The tips of Ophelia's ears turned a whole new level of red.
Before, they were crimson.
Now, they were deep scarlet.
That shade of red had already surpassed the boundaries of normal shyness and entered some kind of physiological limit—if a face could emit steam, she would probably be cooked through by now.
But she didn't shrink back.
A knight does not take back her word.
Rate on N.U.
