A Close Call

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Ophelia was no longer an inexperienced girl.

At least, she didn't think she was.

However, the sun had risen.

Sunlight squeezed through the gaps in the curtains, laying across the bedsheets in precise strips, as if measured with a ruler, accurately illuminating every inch of the room she least wanted lit.

This was entirely different from the night. At night, darkness provided cover; whatever outrageous things were done, were done. At worst, she could just close her eyes and pretend it never happened.

But the day would not allow that.

Daylight meant everything had nowhere to hide.

Her expressions, her reactions, the uncontrollable color flushing her face—all of it was exposed under the sun, laid bare as if she were on a witness stand with no way out.

Every time before, she had insisted Klein extinguish the candles before they could continue. That was her last line of defense, her final shred of modesty.

Whether the candles were out didn't actually matter. Her pupils were clearly visible even in dim light, a fact Klein was likely well aware of. But one always needed a bit of psychological comfort, and a knight was no exception.

But right now, there were no candles to extinguish.

She had no authority over the sun.

What was even more fatal was the commotion outside.

Someone was sweeping the courtyard. The sound of the broom brushing against the flagstone path came in a steady, rhythmic beat, like a metronome.

The clatter of iron came from the kitchen, likely the cook setting up the pots.

Occasionally, muffled snatches of conversation drifted in—the volume alone proved those people weren't far from this very window.

Ophelia clenched her jaw.

The sound of the broom in the courtyard continued its steady beat, and the clanging in the kitchen never stopped. The entire manor was awake, yet she and Klein were still lingering in bed.

In such a situation, to expect her to be slow and methodical... that was absolutely out of the question.

Daylight was already bad enough; every second she delayed was another second of her dignity lost.

Furthermore, those sounds—the sweeping, the clinking of dishes, the occasional footsteps of maids walking downstairs—every syllable reminded her of what she was doing, when she was doing it, and how many ears were just on the other side of a window.

She made a decision.

The blanket was suddenly thrown back as Ophelia flipped over and pinned him down.

Her movements were clean and efficient—though, in this context, it was somewhat of an overkill of her talents. The back of Klein's head hit the pillow with a dull thud, and his hands were pinned to his sides, the man himself nailed to the bed.

“A quick, decisive strike.”

Her voice was kept extremely low, her words heavy and devoid of any extra syllables. It sounded like she was issuing a combat order rather than doing anything else.

Klein looked up at her from below. The morning light hit her from behind, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders. Her expression was both fierce and flushed—truly fierce and truly red. The two conflicting states fought for dominance on her face, creating a rather spectacular effect.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something.

“Don't speak,” Ophelia cut off his retreat, as well as her own. “Talking wastes time.”

Klein shut his mouth.

The knight had spoken. He would obey.

Except there was a slight problem with how he shut his mouth—the corners of his lips curled up slightly. It wasn't obvious, but in the daylight, it was more than enough to be caught.

Ophelia chose to ignore it.

...

As it turned out, the phrase “quick and decisive” was easy to say but an entirely different matter to execute.

Ophelia had overestimated herself.

More accurately, she had overestimated her psychological endurance in the broad daylight, while fully conscious, and while being able to see every single one of Klein's expressions.

At night, she could close her eyes and lie to herself. In the day, she couldn't. What color his eyes were, how his pupils contracted when he looked at her, how his Adam's apple moved—everything was clear, with no buffer whatsoever.

To make matters worse, he didn't stay still after being silenced.

His mouth was closed, but his eyes were not.

He just watched her, his gaze filled with warmth, amusement, and something that made her scalp tingle—a look that was not meant for the light of day.

It was too direct.

It was as if the sunlight had dried out all the emotions hidden in the darkness of night and spread them across his irises, completely unobstructed.

Ophelia felt she had made a wrong decision.

She shouldn't have been on top.

This position meant she couldn't bury her face in the pillow, nor could she avoid his gaze.

She could only brace herself and look down—only to collide with those eyes that were written with the words “I am cooperating, but I am also enjoying this.”

Lowering her head and not daring to look at his face, her gaze could only fall upon her own hands braced on either side of his chest.

Her right hand was fine, but her left—the one where black scales covered half the back of her hand—was currently braced on the bedsheet next to his collarbone.

The scales glinted with a dull luster in the morning light, forming a jarring contrast with the white sheet beside them.

That was how the day was; nothing could be hidden.

Including the things she least wanted to be seen.

She instinctively tried to pull her left hand back.

Klein's hand covered hers first.

His fingers slid into the gaps between hers, his palm pressing against those fine scales, holding firmly.

His thumb brushed over the edges of the scales with just the right amount of pressure, as if confirming their texture, or perhaps saying—after everything they'd been through, there was nothing to hide.

He didn't speak. But his meaning was clear.

A very short, airy sound escaped Ophelia's nose.

It wasn't discomfort.

It was a kind of heat rising slowly from deep within her chest, clogging her throat, unable to be spoken or swallowed, a hundred times more troublesome than discomfort.

And then, things spiraled out of control.

It started because she hadn't expected her daytime perception to be amplified to such an extent.

Every detail was stripped bare by the light. Without the darkness as a buffer, her body's reactions were more direct, more honest, and more unreasonable than at night.

She bit her lower lip, trying her best not to make a sound.

She held out at first—after all, she was an honorary knight of the Empire; she possessed at least some measure of willpower.

However, while Klein had obediently kept his mouth shut, his hands were not idle.

First, the hand holding her left tightened slightly, his thumb tracing circles every now and then. Then his other hand—liberated from his side at some point—began at the inside of her elbow, slowly moving up her forearm. The touch was so light it hardly felt like a touch at all, more like a tentative probe.

Ophelia's breath hitched.

She wanted to say, “Your hands are being restless,” but speaking would mean admitting she noticed, and admitting she noticed would mean—

No. She couldn't open her mouth.

She bit down harder.

As things progressed, she became more dazed. Those sounds were still there—the sweeping, the dishes, the footsteps—but they seemed to be filtered through water, becoming distant and blurry. Only the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears grew louder and faster, a rate that no knight should have.

Until Klein's hand slid past a certain spot on her waist—it wasn't intentional, but the angle was just right, the pressure was just right, and the timing was just right. Three “just rights” stacked together.

A gasp she didn't manage to swallow in time leaked through her teeth.

The sound wasn't loud.

But in her own ears, it was as loud as a thunderclap.

And then—even worse—that sound drifted out through the window.

In the courtyard, the sound of the broom stopped.

Two seconds of silence.

To Ophelia, those two seconds were long enough for her entire life to flash before her eyes.

“Master? Madam?” Margaret's voice came from downstairs, tinged with concern. “Is everything alright?”

The air in the bedroom instantly froze into a solid block.

Ophelia's face went from red to white, and then from white back to red—a shade of red she had never experienced in her life, one that pierced through her skin and reached her very soul.

Her mouth was open, wanting to respond, but her throat was blocked—half by shock, half by something else that hadn't quite faded. Two forces were jammed in her throat, neither able to move. She could feel her vocal cords struggling, but not a single normal syllable came out.

Klein's reaction was faster.

With one hand, he pulled her down by the waist, and with the other, he accurately covered her mouth.

The movement was as fluid as flowing water.

Ophelia was pressed against his chest, her face buried in his palm, her posture so pathetic it was nothing like an honorary knight of the Empire should look. She could feel the vibration in his chest—it wasn't a racing heart, but the tremor of suppressed laughter.

This bastard was holding back a laugh.

Klein turned his head toward the window and raised his voice. “Nothing.”

His tone was natural, his pitch steady, even carrying a hint of the lethargy of someone who had just woken up—if the people outside heard it, they would only think the Master was still lounging in bed and wouldn't think of anything else.

“Understood. Then you and Madam rest a while longer. I'll call you when breakfast is ready,” Margaret's voice drifted away.

The rustle of the broom began again.

Klein let out a sigh of relief.

His hand was still over Ophelia's mouth.

He looked down at her.

Ophelia was glaring at him with those golden eyes. The corners of her eyes were red, her eyelids were red, and the half of her face covered by his palm was likely red as well. But the force of her glare was substantial, and its meaning translated to—

It's all your fault.

Klein felt the accusation was a bit unfair. Clearly, she was the one who couldn't hold it in. But in this situation, any defense would only make things worse.

He made a very wise choice.

He didn't pull his hand away.

Instead, he lightly brushed his thumb against her cheekbone, his voice dropping to a level only the two of them could hear.

“Knightess, mind your concealment.”

Ophelia bit him through his palm.

Not hard.

But a tooth mark remained—a shallow, semi-circular arc imprinted on the thicker muscle of his palm.

Klein glanced at his palm, then looked back up at her.

And then, he laughed quite shamelessly.

Ophelia buried her face back into his chest.

This time, she wasn't pushed down; she buried it herself.

Because she had realized something even more fatal—

The plan for a “quick and decisive strike” was, so far, not even half-finished.

...

Morning light flowed through the gap in the half-open curtains, casting a long white streak across the ceiling.

Ophelia could hear her own breathing, hurried and chaotic, completely unlike the rhythm of someone who had experienced a battlefield.

…After a long while, that moment finally arrived.

Like a tide overflowing a levee, it spread upward along a meridian she couldn't name.

Ophelia felt as if her bones had been removed, slumped over his chest, her forehead resting against his collarbone as she gasped for air.

Sweat-dampened strands of hair clung to her cheeks, and her golden eyelashes were still trembling.

It was over.

Only this one thought remained in her mind. The long, agonizing, and unexpectedly humiliating daytime declaration of war—it was finally over.

She prepared to roll off him.

And then she felt it.

A certain something—had no intention of making an exit.

Ophelia's movements froze.

She looked down.

Klein was looking up at her, his expression innocent, though his eyes were not.

“…You.” Her voice was incredibly hoarse. “How are you still—”

She couldn't finish the sentence.

Not because she was interrupted, but because she simply couldn't bring herself to say the word.

Klein blinked.

His expression was so sincere it made one want to punch him.

“It's daytime,” his voice was also somewhat husky, but his tone was exceptionally righteous. “I'm quite spirited in the mornings.”

Ophelia's eyes were completely red. Not from grievance, but from shame.

Everything before—biting her lip to stay quiet, being heard by Margaret, burying her face in his palm—those things she thought were already the peak of her embarrassment for the day.

Now she realized that such a peak could always be surpassed.

She raised her hand to push his shoulder. “Get up, let me down.”

Klein didn't move.

It wasn't that he was forcefully preventing her from moving, but his hand was hooked around her waist, his thumb tracing the thin skin of her waist dimple with agonizingly light pressure.

“Stay a while longer.”

“I'm not staying.”

“Five minutes.”

“Not even a second.”

“Then three minutes.”

“Is there something wrong with your ears? I said one sec—”

A single movement.

Just one.

Ophelia's words caught in the narrowest part of her throat. Her entire body felt as if a crack had been split from the base of her spine, and all her undefended nerve endings exploded simultaneously. The arms braced on his chest buckled uncontrollably.

She bit the tip of her tongue.

It hurt. But it was useful. At least it kept the sound from escaping.

Klein raised a hand to tuck the hair falling by her face behind her ear, his movements overly gentle, completely mismatched with the bastardly thing he was doing below.

“Knightess,” he looked at her, his tone unhurried. “Look, you say you don't want to, but just now—”

“Shut up.”

Ophelia bit his shoulder.

This time, she really bit him.

Klein hissed in pain, but he couldn't suppress his smile. The vibration of his chest traveled through their touching skin all the way to her heart.

“It hurts,” he said.

“You deserve it.”

“It's worth the pain.”

Ophelia buried her face in the crook of his neck and refused to come out. The tips of her ears were hot enough to fry an egg.

They were quiet for a few seconds.

In the courtyard, the voices of Margaret and another servant could be heard, talking about how they had made honey pancakes for breakfast. It was as ordinary as ordinary could be.

Klein's hand slid from her waist to her back, his palm tracing her spine slowly upward before stopping at her shoulder blades, giving two light pats.

As if soothing a cat with bristling fur.

“Really not continuing?” he asked. His voice was right against her ear, his breath brushing the edge of her auricle.

Ophelia didn't answer.

Nor did she move.

That was the problem.

She knew she should immediately roll off him, get dressed, and walk out of this bedroom with the last remains of her knightly dignity.

But she didn't.

Because her body was more honest than her mind.

The residual heat hadn't fully dissipated; instead, because of his question, it rose a few more degrees. It was like pouring a small cup of wine onto a bonfire—it wasn't much, but it was just enough to make the embers she thought were dying out leap back to life.

Klein's palm pressed against her lower back, applying a bit of force.

It wasn't a push. It was a guide.

“You don't have to move,” he whispered into her ear, his voice very soft and low, tinged with a hint of coaxing. “I'll do it.”

“…Don't you—mph.”

The second half of the sentence was gone.

Because Klein had already taken the initiative.

Ophelia's fingers sank into the muscles of his shoulders, her nails almost embedding themselves in his skin.

She heard a sound escape her nose. Short and fragmented.

Humiliating.

It was truly too humiliating.

The sunlight outside shone on the blanket, casting the silhouette of their entangled forms onto the wall. The rustle of the broom continued, and the sweet scent of pancakes drifted through the half-open window.

Everything was so normal.

So normal that it highlighted how absolutely abnormal everything happening in this bedroom was.

Ophelia gave up her struggle.

The moment she gave up, it wasn't so bad anymore. It was like a bowstring that had been stretched too tight for too long finally snapping; the moment of breaking wasn't painful, but a strange relaxation accompanied by a sense of falling. She no longer bit her lip, and she no longer deliberately suppressed her breathing. The sounds she had been holding back leaked out one by one, muffled against his neck like the sound of waves hitting the shore—not loud, but long-lasting, wave after wave.

She could feel Klein's breathing grow chaotic as well.

It wasn't the leisurely pace he had maintained before, but a rhythm that had truly been disrupted.

The hand hooked around her lower back tightened—not a deliberate application of force, but more of an instinctive grasping, the outline of his knuckles pressing through her skin into the soft part of her waist dimple.

Then she felt him turn his head, his lips pressing against her temple.

He didn't speak.

Only his breath landed there, scorching hot.

In that instant, he wasn't smiling.

When the smile faded from his face, Klein looked a little different—those usually gentle, lazy, and somewhat unserious lines suddenly tightened, like a piece of paper blown by the wind being suddenly pinned down. His eyes were still that same color, but they were a few shades darker, his pupils contracted to tiny points, reflecting her image within them.

In her blurred consciousness, Ophelia captured this image.

She thought—so he doesn't smile all the time.

So he has this kind of expression too.

This thought only existed in her mind for less than two seconds before it was completely swept away by everything that followed.

...

The afterglow faded slowly.

Like the tail end of a rainstorm, it drizzled out, taking a long time to stop.

Ophelia lay slumped over him, their chests pressed together, their heartbeats interfering with each other until she couldn't tell whose was whose. Her eyes were closed, and her sweat-dampened hair was stuck to his collarbone; she didn't want to move an inch.

Klein's hand returned to its previous temperature, lightly stroking her back with moderate pressure.

It was quiet for a long time.

Long enough for the sweeping to stop, for the birds to start chirping, and for the scent of pancakes to double in intensity.

Ophelia finally moved.

She didn't roll over. Instead, she tilted her face slightly out of the crook of his neck, her lips brushing against his earlobe—whether intentionally or because she lacked the strength to control her direction—and said indistinctly:

“…Breakfast is cold. It's on you.”

Klein let out a laugh.

After laughing, he turned his head, his lips happening to brush her brow.

“Fine,” he said, his voice so soft it was as if he were afraid of waking something. “It's on me.”

Ophelia didn't respond.

But she tightened the hand resting on his shoulder—her left hand. The black scales shimmered slightly in the morning light, her fingertips digging into the curve of his shoulder as if fitting into a notch saved specifically for her.

Klein tilted his head and rubbed his chin against the back of her hand.

He didn't stop even when he reached the scales.

He even rubbed them twice.

The sunlight outside the window grew brighter. The pancakes were indeed cold now.

But it didn't seem to matter that much.