The hydro lamps had brightened to their “morning” setting—pale gold, clinical, no warmth—but neither Clorinde nor Wriothesley had noticed the change. Time didn’t exist inside these walls the way it did on the surface; there were no windows, no clocks in this small room. Only the rhythm of their breathing, the slow drag of fingertips, the soft rustle of fabric when one of them shifted.

  They were still tangled on the bottom bunk—her back pressed to his chest now, his arm draped possessively across her waist, hand splayed over her stomach where his oversized shirt had ridden up. Her hair fanned across the pillow; his face was buried in the crook of her neck, lips brushing skin every time he exhaled. They kissed lazily—slow, exploratory, like people discovering new land after years of drought. No hurry. No destination. Just the quiet thrill of finally being allowed to touch.

  Clorinde tilted her head back, offering more throat; Wriothesley obliged with a low sound, lips trailing fire along her pulse point. His hand slid higher—under the shirt now—callused palm skating over bare ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast. She arched—small, helpless—and he groaned against her skin.

  “Wrio…” Her voice cracked on his name. “Touch me more... I want to... feel you.”

  He snapped.

  Eyes flared—black swallowing gray—breath punched out of him in a ragged exhale.

  “Clor…inde…” He sang her name like a prayer, like a melody he had kept locked inside for seven years, drawing it out until he was breathless. Each syllable vibrated against her throat.

  She surprised herself with her own hunger.

  The Champion Duelist—disciplined, controlled, untouchable—was unraveling under his hands. She wanted more. Wanted the weight of his strength, the roughness of his palms, the way he could so easily overpower her and chose—every second—not to. His restraint was intoxicating; his barely-leashed desire was fuel.

  She rolled in his arms until she straddled his hips.

  He stared up at her—chest heaving, hands gripping her thighs like they were the only things keeping him tethered.

  “Clor—”

  She leaned down. Kissed him hard. Open-mouthed. Desperate.

  His hands slid up her back—under the shirt—mapping spine, shoulder blades, the dip of her waist. She rocked against him—once, twice—and both of them made broken sounds into each other’s mouths.

  It was dangerous.

  They had not planned this.

  But they couldn’t stop.

  They were drowning—deliberately, joyfully—in their own desires.

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  Then—

  A deafening *BZZZZZT* shrieked through the room.

  The Fortress-wide speaker system—cold, mechanical, merciless—blared the morning wake-up tone. A flat, emotionless voice followed:

  “All personnel, day shift begins. Report to assigned stations. Productivity quotas updated. Security rotations commencing.”

  Reality slammed back like a steel door.

  Clorinde froze.

  Wriothesley groaned—half frustration, half resignation—and dropped his head back against the pillow.

  “Timing,” he muttered. “Perfect.”

  She sat up slowly—still straddling him, shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair wild—and looked down at him with wide, dazed eyes.

  “Duty calls,” she whispered.

  He exhaled through his nose, grunting. “Yeah.”

  Neither wanted to move.

  Then—regretfully—he slid his hands to her hips and lifted her gently off him.

  “You should get dressed,” he said, voice rough. “Furina needs her Champion.”

  Clorinde nodded—numb, aching.

  She slid off the bunk. Her legs felt unsteady.

  Wriothesley sat up slowly, elbows on knees, head in hands like he was trying to physically contain himself.

  “Do you want me to leave?” she asked—small, suddenly uncertain.

  He looked up at her—eyes still dark, still hungry, but softer now.

  “Trust me,” he said, voice low, “if it were up to me, I’d lock this door and never let you leave again.”

  A small, breathless laugh escaped her.

  He rose—slow, careful—and stepped close enough to press his forehead to hers.

  “But it’s not up to me,” he murmured. “Not today.”

  He kissed her forehead—lingering, tender.

  “Go be the Champion. I’ll be right here.”

  She nodded against him.

  Then—slowly—she stepped back and began to dress.

  Wriothesley turned away—gentlemanly, professional—facing the wall while she changed back into her uniform. But every rustle of fabric, every soft exhale, every quiet sound of buckles and straps felt like torture.

  Dressing was somehow as intense as undressing.

  He swallowed hard. Looked at the ceiling. Counted backward from fifty.

  “That might not be a bad idea...” Clorinde murmured behind him—soft, almost to herself.

  He turned his head just enough to glance over his shoulder.

  “What?”

  “Locking the door,” she said quietly. “Never letting me leave.”

  His eyes flared.

  “Don’t put strange thoughts in my head, Clor,” he warned, voice dropping an octave. “You might regret it later.”

  She met his gaze in the small mirror on the wall—bold, unafraid.

  “I just don’t want to go back out there right now.”

  He crossed the room in two steps—stopped just short of touching her.

  “Then take the day off.”

  She shook her head. “I’m the Archon’s personal guard. After that night’s attempt—”

  “I know.” He exhaled. “But talk to Lady Furina. She forgave you once. I know she’ll understand. You’re only human, Clor. She knows how responsible you are. But you need rest too.”

  She looked at him—really stared.

  “You should take your own advice. Sigewinne might be looking for you this very minute.”

  He huffed a laugh. “Fair point.”

  They stood there—close enough to feel each other’s heat, far enough to breathe.

  “Let’s make this work, shall we?” he said softly. “Remember, Clor—I’m always here whenever you need me.”

  She reached up—cupped his jaw—brushed her thumb across his lower lip.

  “Leave the door open for me this time.”

  He kissed her palm. Looking straight into her bright purple eyes.

  “Always.”

  She stepped back—uniform pristine again, Champion once more.

  One last look—long, lingering—then she turned toward the door.

  He watched her go.

  Just before she stepped into the corridor, she paused.

  Looked over her shoulder.

  “I love you,” she said—quiet, certain.

  His breath caught.

  “I love you too.”

  The door hissed shut behind her.

  Wriothesley stood alone in the small room—heart hammering, lips tingling, the scent of her still clinging to his shirt—and allowed himself one small, shaky smile.

  He broke down sitting on the bunk bed. Both hands up on his flushed face.

  They had said it.

  They had chosen.

  And no duty, no father, no assassination attempt, no Fortress wall would change that.

  Not anymore.