By the time Klein finally snapped out of that chaotic, sticky state, the light filtering through the gap in the curtains had shifted from the hue of early morning to that of late morning.
He had an unreal sensation, as if he had just undergone a particularly unreasonable battle—one without armor, without a staff, and without a shred of the rationality required for spellcasting.
Both of them were panting.
Ophelia lay slumped over his chest, her forehead resting against his collarbone. Her golden hair was a mess, damp strands clinging to her neck and shoulders. She didn't speak; her breathing hadn't quite leveled out yet, and her skin was warm and damp where it pressed against his.
Klein didn't speak either. His mind remained blank for a good while, as if it had been washed clean by a cleaning spell—not a single thought remained, leaving it utterly pristine.
After an unknown amount of time, he slowly regained his senses.
He reached up, brushing away the hair draped over Ophelia's cheek.
When his fingers touched her temple, the sensation was damp, carrying the warmth of her sweat and body heat. She didn't move or pull away, simply lying there quietly. Occasionally, a tiny sound would roll from her throat—a muffled noise that made it hard to tell if she hadn't recovered yet or was simply being coquettish.
Klein chose to assume the latter.
“We have to get up,” he said, his voice so raspy it startled even him.
Ophelia didn't react.
“We really have to get up.”
“…Mm.”
She hummed, but no further action followed. Her eyelashes brushed against his collarbone, itching like tiny insects crawling over him.
Klein waited for a moment. “I can't get up if you don't move.”
She was pressed entirely against him. She wasn't heavy—given her frame, her weight likely didn't exceed his estimates by much—but the issue wasn't the weight. It was the sheer surface area of skin-to-skin contact; every inch was a burden. A burden of a different sort.
Only then did Ophelia seem to realize the situation. She propped herself up with a half-beat of delay. Her movements were a bit stiff; her waist faltered slightly as she exerted strength, and her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly—but she quickly returned to normal and rolled over to sit beside him.
The blanket slid down.
Morning light spilled over them without any obstruction.
Although Klein had already seen everything he should and shouldn't see in its entirety, the visual impact of broad daylight and a conscious state was still different. In the dim lamplight, it was like Impressionism; in the morning sun, it was Hyperrealism. The clarity of the details was enough to make one's heart race.
Then, his vision suddenly went black.
Ophelia leaned over and clapped her hand over his eyes.
The movement was fast and fierce, possessing the precision honed on a battlefield—her right hand, fingers spread, palm sealing perfectly over his eye sockets. From decision to execution, it took no more than point three seconds.
“No looking.”
Her voice was kept very low, but the fierce edge in her tone was real.
Klein obediently raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I didn't see anything.”
“You looked.”
“My eyes are closed.”
“They weren't closed just now.”
There was no arguing with that.
Ophelia's palm was warm, the base of her hand braced against the bridge of his nose, her fingers sealing tightly so that not a sliver of light leaked through. Klein could feel her fingers trembling slightly.
Klein's heart softened, though he didn't let it show on his face. “They're closed now. Really.”
Ophelia didn't let go immediately. She stared at his face for two seconds—confirming that those eyes were indeed honestly closed and that there was no sign of them darting around under the lids—before finally withdrawing her hand.
As she pulled away, her fingertips grazed his face. The touch was light, sliding from the corner of his eye to his cheekbone like the tip of a feather brushing against paper.
It was hard to tell if it was intentional or accidental.
Klein didn't dare open his eyes to check. But he felt as if the sensation of that touch would linger on his face for the entire day.
The bedsheets rustled.
With his eyes closed, Klein listened to the sounds of her getting up—the sound of the blanket being thrown back, the slight rebound of the mattress, and then the sound of bare feet stepping onto the wooden floor.
Immediately following that was a very short intake of breath.
It was very faint, suppressed in her throat. Likely, a certain place felt a bit sore when she exerted herself.
He cleared his throat. “Do you want me to—”
“No.”
The refusal was categorical, cutting him off before he could even finish. The determination in her tone was comparable to a retreat order issued on a battlefield.
Klein wisely shut his mouth.
Both of them were sticky. After last night's exertion, neither had the energy to clean up, and then they had gone another round this morning—in short, heading to the bathroom in this state would be far too awkward.
The walk from the bedroom to the bathroom was at least twenty paces down the hallway. If they ran into a servant, the embarrassment of the scene would be enough for them to go into seclusion and find a deserted mountain to live on until the end of time.
“Use a cleaning spell,” Ophelia's voice came from the foot of the bed. Her tone had already returned to its usual steady state, as if all those gasps and tremors just now belonged to someone else.
With his eyes still closed, Klein raised his hand and cast an array by feel.
A second-tier cleaning spell. It wasn't complex, belonging to the most basic grade of lifestyle magic.
A pale blue glow spread from the array, gently sweeping over the two of them.
The sticky sensation receded, and their skin felt refreshed.
Even their hair became much smoother, the strands that had been tangled together by sweat becoming dry and soft once more.
Ophelia looked down to inspect herself.
The effect was good.
Then, she dressed herself with a speed that was truly breathtaking.
Klein listened with his eyes closed—the sound of fabric snapping open, the slight friction of a hem sliding over skin, the soft clicks of buttons being fastened one by one.
The rhythm was extremely fast and fluid, without any hesitation or pause, rivaling the efficiency of donning armor before a battle.
“Alright.”
Klein opened his eyes.
Ophelia stood by the window, her clothing neat and tidy. Her hair was swept to one side, revealing her clean profile and the sharp line of her jaw. The morning sun hit her, making her plain white shirt glow slightly.
Dignified, efficient, and impeccable.
She looked like a completely different person from the one who had just been panting against his chest with hair stuck to his skin.
She tilted her head to glance at him, her expression very calm.
However, the tips of her ears were red.
Klein didn't call attention to this detail. He stretched and sat up in bed, the blanket sliding off him as the cool air hit his back.
Ophelia's gaze lingered on him for a moment.
Then she turned around, facing the window.
“…You put yours on too.”
Her voice was as flat as could be. But she emphasized the word “too” just a bit heavily.
Klein let out a laugh. He didn't make a sound, though, lest she hear him and accuse him of being smug.
He got up to find his clothes—they had been thrown about quite a bit last night. His trousers were a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed, and his shirt had somehow ended up draped over the back of a chair two meters away.
His dressing speed was nowhere near as fast as hers, but he didn't dawdle either. As he fastened the last button, he noticed that although Ophelia was facing the window, her head was tilted at an angle of about fifteen degrees.
She was peeking.
Klein pretended not to notice.
He very considerately slowed down his final few movements, letting her watch for a couple more seconds.
After buttoning up and straightening his cuffs, Klein walked to her side. The two of them stood side by side in front of the window.
Sunlight had already filled the courtyard, illuminating the flagstone path. Servants were drawing water by the well, the wooden buckets making dull thudding sounds as they collided. In the distance, white smoke rose from the kitchen chimney, the wind blowing the smoke column askew as it curled and dissipated into the clean sky.
It was an ordinary morning.
No different from any other morning—except for the fact that they had both gotten up nearly four hours later than usual.
Ophelia looked out the window, remaining quiet for a while.
“I didn't do this morning's training.”
“Mm.”
“I didn't do yesterday's either.”
“Mm.”
She fell silent for a few more seconds. The sounds of servants greeting each other drifted in from outside, mixed with the splash of buckets dropping into the well, sounding as mundane as could be.
Then she spoke—
“It's all your fault.”
Her voice wasn't loud, and her tone was flat.
Klein didn't defend himself.
Mainly because there was no defense to be made.
Moreover, he suspected that even if he did defend himself, the result wouldn't change at all.
He very sensibly gave an “mm” in response.
The wind blew in through the window, carrying the scent of the flowerbeds in the courtyard and blowing a few strands of Ophelia's side-swept hair loose.
The golden strands fluttered, catching the light for a moment as they brushed over Klein's shoulder.
She didn't bother with those few strands of hair.
Klein tucked them back for her, casually pinning the stray hairs behind her ear.
Rate on N.U.
