In the room, Klein was applying ointment to Ophelia’s right hand.
The lid of the white porcelain jar rested on the corner of the table. The ointment inside was a semi-transparent milky white, with a texture finer than Ophelia had expected—her finger pads didn't feel any graininess when they touched it. Once spread, it turned into a thin oily film that felt slightly cool against her skin.
Klein’s movements were slow.
His thumb pushed from the base of her palm to the tips of her fingers, applying moderate pressure as he rubbed the ointment in inch by inch along the lines of her palm. When he passed the thin callus on the web of the thumb, his finger pad pressed down a couple extra times, rubbing in small circles to push the ointment into the cuticle.
Ophelia didn't speak.
She felt an inexplicable sense of bashfulness.
It was the kind of strange feeling that cropped up precisely because they were making deliberate contact, even though they usually touched hands quite often. Her heart felt itchy and restless, and she didn't even know how to position her fingers.
No... come to think of it, their only truly intimate moments were during those times.
They rarely held hands normally.
That had to be it.
Images of the two of them with fingers interlaced flashed through Ophelia’s mind. And the times when Klein would grip her wrist—the strength wasn't much to her, but she never pulled away.
Those scenes were completely different from now. Back then, breath was ragged, thoughts were fragmented, and the blood in her body felt like it was boiling; no one had the presence of mind to ponder what hand-to-hand contact felt like.
But now was different.
The lights were on. The windows were closed. She sat in a chair, and he sat opposite her. There was only the width of a low table between them. Her right hand lay open in his palm, fingers slightly spread, as he coated them one by one.
Every touch was crystal clear.
The temperature of his finger pads. The angle at which his knuckles brushed the back of her hand. The way his thumb paused at the base of her ring finger when he switched to it—was he out of ointment and needed more, or was it something else?
Everything was clear.
Clear to a degree that made it hard for Ophelia to sit still.
So that had to be the reason—having only touched during those times made being held while awake and under the lights feel like a lapse in composure.
At that thought, she glanced at Klein.
Klein’s attention was entirely on her hand, his thumb pushing a small glob of ointment into the gap between her middle and ring fingers. He was focused, his brow slightly furrowed, looking very much like he had "work to do."
He didn't notice her looking at him.
Ophelia’s gaze lingered on his lowered eyelashes for a breath before moving to his hand. His fingers were a section longer than hers, his knuckles thicker, and his finger pads had thin calluses left by sandpaper and alchemical tools—unlike the one on her web of the thumb, his were more scattered and varied, worn down from years of handling various materials.
These hands had inspected her palm this morning, feeling over it inch by inch.
And now they were applying ointment for her.
Ophelia looked away.
“Does it itch?” Klein asked without looking up.
“No.”
“Then why are your fingers shaking?”
Ophelia looked down at her hand.
It wasn't shaking.
She looked back at Klein. He happened to look up, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth—a very faint one that hadn't spread yet, but it was enough for her to read the words "just teasing you."
“...Are you that bored?”
“I’m not bored, but while my hands are busy, my mouth is free.” Klein took another glob of ointment and began coating her pinky. “You were staring at me for a long time just now. I had to find something to say, or the atmosphere would be too strange.”
Ophelia’s breath hitched for a beat.
She’d been caught.
She didn't deny it, nor did she explain. She simply turned her gaze toward the window.
Klein didn't press her. He finished coating her pinky and returned to her palm, rubbing it twice with the base of his own palm.
“Alright, right hand finished.”
He let go and dipped back into the white porcelain jar for a new layer of ointment.
“Left hand.”
Ophelia’s body didn't move, but her left hand subconsciously curled on her knee.
It was a brief movement. So brief she didn't even notice it herself.
Klein reached out, palm up, and waited.
Ophelia didn't offer her hand.
Klein’s palm remained open, waiting for three breaths, then another three.
“It’s fine,” Ophelia said.
“What’s fine?”
“The left hand doesn't need it.” Her tone was flat, as if stating a fact not worth discussing. “Finishing the right hand is enough.”
Klein didn't pull back.
He looked at her, specifically at her curled left hand on her knee. The black scales glinted darkly under the light, her fingers bent so that the tips pressed right against the boundary between the scales and normal skin.
“I adjusted the formula for this batch of ointment.” Klein’s hand remained raised, with no intention of lowering it. “Maintenance is one thing, but it can also provide some suppression for the pollution on your left hand.”
Ophelia’s fingers twitched.
“How much suppression?”
“Hard to say; we’ll only know after using it.” Klein’s tone was casual, as if discussing a technical parameter. “Of course, the main treatment will depend on the subsequent plan. This is just an aid.”
Ophelia didn't respond, nor did she reach out.
A few breaths of silence passed.
Klein shifted his posture, propping his elbow on his knee while keeping his palm up, showing great patience.
“Besides—” He paused, his expression a bit conflicted. “Just let me finish applying it. Applying it to only one hand makes my whole body feel off.”
Ophelia looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“Literally.” Klein frowned slightly, explaining quite seriously. “Knowing the right hand has it while the left doesn't... just thinking about it makes me uncomfortable. How am I supposed to sleep tonight? I’ll close my eyes and see nothing but images of one hand coated and the other not.”
“...Are you sick?”
“Maybe. A bit of OCD.” Klein nodded solemnly. “A very serious case. If I don't fix it, it’ll affect my experimental state tomorrow, and then Aphros’s bipedal progress will be delayed by a day, and the research on that sea folk will be delayed by two—”
“Fine.”
Ophelia cut him off.
Her expression didn't change much, but her lips pressed together. That "fine" wasn't harsh; it carried a hint of being unable to do anything about him.
She lifted her left hand from her knee and placed it in his palm.
Klein caught her hand but didn't rush to act.
He looked down at it.
The black scales clung to the back of her hand, spreading from the base of her fingers to her wrist, the edges uneven like ink smudges on rice paper. Under the light, the surface of each scale had extremely fine patterns, so regular they didn't seem like the product of a disease, but rather something a biological creature was meant to have.
His thumb landed on the edge of the scales and gave a gentle rub.
Ophelia’s fingers curled in a microscopic arc.
“So cold,” Klein said, unsure if he was talking to himself or to her.
Then he began to apply it.
His technique was the same as with the right hand, pushing from the base of the palm toward the fingertips with even pressure, slowly rubbing the ointment in. He didn't intentionally avoid the scales; his finger pads simply slid from normal skin onto the surface of the scales and back again, without any pause or hesitation.
The texture of those scales was clear beneath his finger pads. Hard, smooth, and about half a degree colder than the surrounding skin. After the ointment was applied, it would leave a thin white line in the gaps between the scales, which he then rubbed even with his thumb.
Ophelia watched his hand the whole time.
It was just applying ointment—nothing special.
But her throat moved.
“Do you really not think—”
She stopped halfway through her sentence.
Klein’s hand didn't stop, and he didn't look up. “Don't think what?”
Ophelia didn't finish the sentence.
Klein finished the gaps between her index and middle fingers, flipped her hand over, and began dealing with the palm. The palm of her left hand was smoother than the right, the fingerprints so shallow they were almost impossible to feel—he had noticed this that morning.
Once the ointment was applied, that excessively smooth skin absorbed it faster than the right hand.
“It absorbs quite well.” Klein finally looked up and wiggled his fingers at her; the ointment on his finger pads was nearly gone. “It seems the areas covered by scales have a higher permeability for this type of alchemical reagent. I’ll adjust the concentration later; the left hand can have its own separate version.”
His tone when he said this was purely technical, completely different from the bantering tone from before.
Ophelia looked at her left hand, held in his palm.
The coolness of the ointment was slowly seeping into the skin beneath the scales, bringing a light sensation that was like mint but not entirely. She couldn't say if it was comfortable or not, but it was different from the usual faint restlessness beneath the scales.
It was quieter.
Klein squeezed Ophelia’s right hand, pressing his thumb into her palm; the texture was indeed much better than before the application.
He lifted her hand before his eyes, looking down at it for a few seconds, then flipped it to check the back.
“Alright, the effect is good,” he said, his tone like he was verifying an experimental report. “The formula can be finalized.”
Ophelia was about to pull her hand back.
Klein didn't let go.
He pulled her hand a bit closer, turned it slightly, and brought his nose near, taking a serious sniff.
Ophelia was stunned for a beat.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking the scent.” Klein didn't look up, sounding perfectly justified. “I specifically added an ingredient to the formula. Theoretically, the finished product shouldn't smell bad—I have to verify it in practice.”
He spoke candidly, with the same focus he only had during experiments.
Ophelia stared at the top of his head, not saying anything for a moment.
This man...
She relaxed her hand and let him be.
Klein’s head was lowered, his nose less than two fingers away from her palm.
His exhaled breath swept against her skin, warm and slightly ticklish.
Ophelia’s fingers twitched, but she couldn't move them.
The next second, she felt his lips.
Not his nose, but his lips.
They landed gently in the center of her palm, stayed for a breath, then moved up slightly to the base of her middle finger.
It wasn't heavy.
But it was clear.
So clear that Ophelia’s back immediately tensed.
She looked down, meeting Klein’s eyes as he looked up.
Klein was holding back a laugh, the triumphant glint in his eyes impossible to hide.
Ophelia didn't speak.
Her hand was still in his, the center of her palm retaining the sensation from just now—light, dry, the temperature of his lips and the coolness of the ointment overlapping so she couldn't tell which was more distinct.
“...Checking the scent,” she repeated his words from before.
“Right.”
“You check with your mouth?”
Klein blinked.
His expression wavered for about half a second between "should I keep pretending" and "I can't keep this up," then he gave up.
“Olfactory organs and gustatory organs are highly linked in anatomy.” He spoke nonsense with a straight face. “Cross-verification is very reasonable.”
Ophelia pulled her hand back.
The movement wasn't fast, but it was decisive.
Klein’s fingers slid over her fingertips, failing to catch them.
“And the experimental conclusion?” Ophelia asked.
“What?”
“You were verifying the scent. The conclusion.”
Klein was stunned for a beat, not expecting her to take the bait.
He cleared his throat, sat up straight, screwed the lid onto the white porcelain jar, and tapped his fingers on the jar twice.
“The conclusion—the formula is qualified. The scent is light, not pungent, and the residual smell on the skin is within an acceptable range.” He pushed the white porcelain jar to the corner of the table. “As for the taste—”
“Klein.”
“Fine, I’ll stop.”
He raised a hand in a gesture of surrender. But the hint of a smile still hung there, impossible to wipe away completely.
The room fell silent for a few breaths.
The wick burned with a soft pop, the flame flickering, causing the two shadows on the wall to sway.
Ophelia didn't move.
Klein kept his hand raised in surrender for two seconds. Seeing that she had no intention of letting it go, he slowly lowered his hand a bit.
“You don't plan on letting this go,” he said. It wasn't a question.
“What do you think?”
Klein looked at her expression and reined in the last of his smile.
His sense of boundaries in these matters had always been precise—knowing when he could keep teasing and when he should quit while he was ahead.
But today, Ophelia didn't seem to intend to let him off.
“Lex talionis,” she said.
Klein blinked.
“You kissed my hand, so I’ll kiss yours. Fair.”
Klein didn't speak.
He looked at her for two seconds, during which the expression on his face went from surprise to realization to a subtle anticipation.
Then he let out a short laugh, a sort of hum from his nose.
“Fine.”
He offered his right hand.
The movement was very crisp, back of the hand up, fingers naturally extended as he placed it before her.
His high level of cooperation actually caused Ophelia to pause for a beat.
She had originally thought he would bargain, or at least argue about how "this isn't equal."
He didn't.
He gave her his hand directly, his palm resting on the table, fingers long and knuckles distinct. An alchemist’s hand—having handled potions and vessels for years, there was a thin layer of calluses on the finger pads, but the back of the hand was clean, the bone structure beautiful.
Ophelia picked up his hand.
She lowered her head, her gaze landing on his fingers.
The index finger.
She chose the index finger.
Klein didn't make a sound. His sitting posture was relaxed, his body leaning back slightly, letting her do as she pleased.
Ophelia had originally planned—to give him a bite, not a hard one, but enough to leave a tooth mark, enough to make this man remember a lesson.
An eye for an eye.
Since you used your mouth to "smell," I’ll use mine too.
She opened her mouth, her teeth gently catching the second joint of his index finger.
The pressure was light.
Very light.
Only enough to leave a faint indentation on the skin.
Klein’s finger moved slightly.
Not pulling back, but curving slightly so that his finger pad inadvertently touched the inside of her lower lip.
That touch.
Ophelia’s teeth loosened.
She couldn't describe the feeling. The act of biting stopped there; her teeth didn't tighten further, yet her lips didn't let go.
His finger pad pressed against her lip, the skin carrying the residual coolness of the ointment and the heat of his own body temperature, the two temperatures overlapping.
She wanted to let go.
She didn't.
Her teeth slowly released, but her lips still held his fingertip.
The tip of her tongue touched the thin callus on his finger pad—rough, unlike the ones worn onto her own hands, a different texture, dense, with a pattern soaked in potions.
Klein didn't move.
He didn't move at all.
Ophelia didn't know at what moment she had deviated from the plan.
She was only supposed to take a bite.
One bite.
But she held it for too long, so long that the sense of "punishment" had completely vanished, replaced by something she hadn't named yet.
She held his fingertip, her tongue pressing against it as she gave a gentle pull.
It was a suck.
Light, almost silent.
But the change in pressure in her mouth was real, and the sensation of her tongue tracing the patterns of his finger pad was real.
Klein inhaled sharply.
The sound wasn't loud, but in the quiet room, it was very clear.
Ophelia heard it.
She looked up.
Her gaze moved past his finger and met Klein’s face.
He wasn't laughing anymore.
The triumphant, mischievous smile from before was gone. His eyes were fixed on where her lips met his finger, and his Adam's apple bobbed once.
Ophelia held his finger and sucked again.
This time was heavier than the last.
Klein’s other hand gripped the armrest of his chair.
“Ophelia.”
He called her name, his voice half a tone lower than usual, a husky kind of low.
She didn't answer.
The tip of her tongue circled his fingertip, sliding from the edge of the nail to the center of the pad, slowly, unhurriedly.
Klein’s breathing changed.
The even rhythm was broken, his inhalations short and his exhalations even shorter.
“You’re a...” He started, but didn't finish.
Ophelia finally let go.
She released his hand, sat up straight, and wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.
The movement was natural, as if she had just tasted something.
Klein looked down at his index finger.
The fingertip was wet, the thin callus on the pad softened by the moisture. A ring of very faint tooth marks remained on the second joint, but their presence was far less noticeable than that layer of dampness.
Rate on N.U.
