Klein believed he had absolutely no reason to refuse.
“Alright.”
The word came out of his throat with a decisiveness that surprised even him.
He hadn't hesitated for even half a beat.
It was as if someone had pressed a shortcut key in his brain, bypassing all review processes and executing the command directly.
Ophelia probably hadn't expected him to agree so quickly either.
Her expression didn't change much, but the tips of her ears turned a shade of red. The color wasn't obvious; if the light from the window hadn't been hitting the side of her face just then, it would have been impossible to notice.
The golden Knightess had issued an invitation, the other party had accepted, and then she realized she hadn't actually thought about what to do next.
The feeling was novel.
She liked it.
Taking the initiative to tease Klein.
Except it was often a tactic that backfired on her as much as it affected him.
The atmosphere remained silent for two seconds.
Klein spoke first. “Go sit by the bed.”
His tone was normal, as if he were asking her to pass the salt.
Ophelia gave a small “Mm” and turned toward the bed.
She sat on the edge of the mattress, her legs clad in black stockings pressed together, toes touching the floor.
Once seated, she didn't look up at Klein. Instead, she lowered her gaze, staring at the hem of her dress just above her knees.
Her fingers unconsciously pinched the fabric of her skirt, squeezing tightly for a moment before letting go.
The index and middle fingers of her right hand took turns tracing the stitching of the hem, as if using this tiny movement to burn off excess nervous energy.
It was unnaturally quiet.
Klein walked over and crouched down in front of her.
In the same posture as when he was putting the stockings on earlier, he heard his kneecap give a soft click as it hit the floor.
—He had been crouching a lot today.
“Which leg?” he asked.
Ophelia finally looked up at him.
Her expression was that of someone trying hard to maintain a calm that was already beginning to crack.
There was an uneasy light in her golden eyes, and her lips pursed briefly before relaxing.
Her gaze met his for less than a second before darting away, as if she had accidentally touched something hot.
“...Whichever.”
Her voice was very low, so low that if he hadn't been close, it would have been drowned out by the wind outside the window.
Klein almost laughed.
Was the person who had just leaned in and asked “Want to touch?” really the same person who couldn't even say “whichever” properly now?
It was as if the Knightess only started fearing the gunshots after the battle was already over; the timing was truly endearing.
He didn't laugh. He held it in.
He reached out, palm upward, and gently supported the calf of her right leg.
The sensation through the fabric was different from when he was putting them on. Before, his focus had been on “not tearing the fabric,” making the movements functional. Now that the purpose had changed, the same patch of skin beneath his palm transmitted an entirely different message.
The spider silk gauze had already been warmed by her body heat; it no longer had the coolness of the fabric itself but carried her own mild warmth. As his palm pressed against it, the thin gauze separated their skin—it was so thin he could feel the contours of the muscles in her calf, yet it was indeed a barrier, and the texture beneath his fingertips had a fine-grained quality.
It wasn't direct skin contact, but it seemed more dangerous than if it were.
Klein's thumb slid slowly along the outer side of her calf.
Ophelia's toes curled.
The reaction was identical to when she was putting the stockings on.
This time, Klein saw it.
“Ticklish?”
Ophelia said nothing.
There could be many reasons why she didn't answer, but Klein chose to interpret it as a “yes.”
His hand moved from her calf to the side of her knee, his palm resting against the back of the knee. The skin there was thinner, and the fabric fit more snugly; rubbing through the gauze, the boundary between bone and soft tissue was excessively clear.
“It doesn't hurt, does it?” he asked casually.
He didn't actually need to ask. His strength had always been well-controlled. But if he didn't say something, the room would be so quiet that all he would hear was his own heartbeat, a sound he didn't particularly want to listen to right now.
Ophelia shook her head.
The movement was tiny; her chin barely moved.
The rigid, upright posture she had been maintaining also loosened slightly. Her back wasn't as straight as before, her shoulders pulled inward slightly, and her center of gravity leaned back half an inch as if instinctively creating distance—yet her leg didn't pull back.
It was very contradictory.
The upper body was retreating, while the lower body was holding its ground.
The Knightess's tactical discipline had completely collapsed at a time like this.
Klein's hand continued upward, past the knee to her thigh.
The sensation here was different again. There was more muscle underneath, yielding with elasticity as his palm pressed down; the fabric stretched slightly with the movement of his fingers before snapping back into place. Soft, full, and warm.
Adjectives queued up in his mind, and he pushed them back down one by one.
He felt his heart rate was about fifteen percent faster than usual.
—Alright, maybe more than fifteen percent.
His hand stopped mid-thigh.
His fingers didn't move. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but that he didn't quite dare to. He maintained a standard “flat palm” posture, keeping a safe distance between his thumb and the other four fingers, as if following the minimum contact protocol for a delicate operation. In reality, he was following a self-restraint protocol.
“How do they feel?” Ophelia asked.
Her voice had regained some of its usual stability, but the volume was still hushed. She didn't look at him while asking, her gaze fixed toward the window.
Klein thought about it seriously.
“Better than I expected.”
It was an honest evaluation. No embellishments, no ulterior motives.
At least, that was what he told himself.
But the heat radiating from beneath his palm didn't quite cooperate with that claim. He couldn't even tell how much of that heat was coming from her leg through the fabric and how much was being generated by his own palm.
Upon hearing this, a glint of light reflected in the golden eye she turned toward him. It wasn't light from the window. It was something internal, bright and difficult to describe. The corner of her mouth twitched, but she didn't speak, turning her gaze back toward the window.
His hand stayed mid-thigh for two seconds before withdrawing.
Not because it was time to stop, but because he wasn't sure he could maintain his current composure if he went any higher.
If they were in their own home, he might have already turned into a beast.
Unfortunately, they were in a guest room arranged by the Silver Scale Chamber of Commerce; indulging in such daytime debauchery would be a bit much.
He could only resign himself to being “worse than a beast” for now.
His palm retraced its path, passing the knee and calf before finally sliding to her ankle.
Ophelia's breathing hitched noticeably when his palm passed the back of her knee. Her fingers gripped the bedsheet beneath her—the movement was fast and she let go quickly, but Klein caught it in his peripheral vision. The Knightess was not made of iron, after all.
Only when he retreated to her ankle did her breathing become even again.
Klein did not let go.
He lifted Ophelia's calf and cupped her stocking-clad foot with his other hand.
Compared to her height, Ophelia's feet were actually quite dainty. It was impossible to tell when she was wearing shoes, as they obscured the shape of the foot itself. Now, with a thin layer of spider silk clinging to it, the lines of the bones on her instep were clean and sharp, and her five toes were neatly tucked together.
The luster of the fabric was more apparent on her instep than on her calf, likely because the skin was paler there, making the texture of the silk gauze stand out more against the light background.
His thumb pressed down along the grooves of the bones in the center of her instep, sliding gently.
Ophelia's toes curled again.
“Your feet really are ticklish,” Klein said.
Ophelia gave a soft grunt but didn't speak. The sound came from her nose, trailing off with a slight lift—it wasn't true anger, but more like some sort of uncategorizable coquettishness.
Klein raised her foot a little higher, changing the angle. The fabric traced the curve of her sole, and the arch was deeper than he had imagined.
Beautiful.
The word flashed through his mind, but he didn't say it out loud. Some things lose their meaning when spoken.
His thumb slid along the bottom of her foot.
Ophelia's leg jerked violently.
She wasn't just curling her toes; her entire leg snapped back.
The force was significant. The hand Klein used to hold her foot was nearly thrown off.
“...Don't mess around,” Ophelia said with a touch of coquettishness.
Klein gently lowered Ophelia's foot, his palm lingering over her instep one last time before withdrawing.
The moment his fingertips left, a residual sensation remained on his skin, as if the temperature of the fabric had left an invisible mark in the lines of his palm.
A few seconds of silence followed.
A bird chirped twice outside the window—he didn't know the species, but the sound was short and crisp.
Klein looked down at his hand. His palm was still hot.
He recalled the textures he had just felt. The calf, the back of the knee, the thigh, the instep. That nearly non-existent distance created by the spider silk fabric. He hadn't quite touched her, but he had come so close. That tiny gap, instead of separating them, had made every sensation clearer.
He suddenly spoke.
“Tonight... how about you keep these on?”
His voice was about half a pitch lower than usual as he said this.
He didn't realize it himself, but if he were to record and replay it, he would find that the ending of the sentence carried something unlike his usual self.
It sounded more like a truth that had leaked out through a crack in long-held restraint.
Ophelia was stunned for a moment.
She turned her head to look at him.
Her golden eyes met his gaze, filled with surprise, shyness, and a hint—just a hint—of the relief that comes from being seen through.
She stammered out a single word: “Rogue...”
Her voice was so quiet it was as if she were afraid the bird outside would hear.
Yet, she said nothing of refusal.
Rate on N.U.
