The bedroom door closed behind Wriothesley with a metallic thud that felt louder than it should have.

  Clorinde stood alone in the small space, suddenly hyper-aware of every sound: the low hum of the Fortress’s ventilation, the faint drip of water somewhere in the walls, her own heartbeat thudding against her ribs like it wanted out.

  She looked down at herself—still in the midnight-blue uniform, now wrinkled from being crushed against him, the fabric clinging slightly where sweat and nerves had made it stick. She felt sticky. Overheated. Not just from the walk or the embrace, but from the sheer emotional static that had built between them all evening.

  She cleared her throat, even though no one was there to hear it.

  “Uhm, Wrio?” she called toward the closed door.

  The answer came instantly, muffled but immediate, like he’d been standing with his ear pressed to the steel.

  “Yeah?”

  She hesitated.

  “I feel kind of... sweaty. From earlier. Do you mind if I take a shower first before changing?”

  Silence.

  Then a strangled sound—half choke, half cough—followed by the unmistakable clatter of something (his rationality) nearly hitting the floor on the other side.

  Clorinde blinked.

  Wriothesley’s voice came back—higher than usual, cracking on the first syllable.

  “O-of course! There’s a shower just beyond that door. I’ll—uh—leave your change of clothes here. It’s my old shirt. I know it’s going to be too big for you but I don’t really have women’s clothing here—”

  He was rambling. At full speed. Full-on panic mode.

  Clorinde’s mouth twitched despite herself.

  She could practically see him on the other side: red-faced, hair disheveled from nervous tugging, eyes wide, probably clutching whatever unfortunate object he’d almost dropped like a lifeline.

  The image of her standing under his shower, water running over her skin, then slipping into one of his shirts—soft, worn, carrying his scent—flashed through Wriothesley’s mind in vivid, merciless detail.

  Eyes wide. His brain flatlined. He was holding his breath unconsciously.

  He grabbed the nearest shirt from a neatly folded stack (a plain black one, slightly faded at the seams), folded it with shaking hands, and practically threw it onto the small table just inside the bedroom door.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “I-I’ll leave the room first and go back to my office for the meantime,” he stammered, already backing toward the corridor like the room was on fire.

  Clorinde stepped forward instinctively.

  “Wrio, I’m sorry for all this trouble—”

  He spun around so fast he nearly tripped.

  “NO!” The word burst out louder than intended. He winced, lowered his voice. “No. I mean—I’m always here when you need me. Always.”

  His eyes were wide, earnest, almost desperate.

  Then he turned again—face scarlet—and bolted.

  The door slammed shut behind him with enough force to rattle the frame.

  Clorinde flinched and titled her head, eyes squeezing closed on reflex.

  Silence.

  Then—slowly—she exhaled.

  A few heartbeats later, realization hit her like cold water.

  “Oh no.”

  She slapped both hands to her cheeks hard enough to sting.

  “I should just sew my mouth shut,” she muttered, mortified. “I say too much unnecessary things. I’m causing him trouble again.”

  She stared at the folded shirt on the table.

  Then—hesitantly—picked it up.

  Brought it to her face.

  Inhaled. Long.

  It smelled like him.

  Tea and metal. A hint of mint. It felt warm and safe.

  Her face flamed hotter than before.

  She didn’t pull away.

  Instead she carried the shirt to the small adjoining bathroom, set it carefully on the counter, and began to undress—each piece of clothing dropped to the floor like shed armor. Her uniform jacket, scarf, shirt, black tights pooled around her ankles; the undergarments followed. She stepped under the shower spray, let the hot water pound against her shoulders, and tried—failed—to calm the riot inside her chest.

  Meanwhile, one man was fighting his inner demons.

  He told her he was going back to his office. It was all a lie.

  Outside in the corridor, Wriothesley paced like a caged animal.

  Back and forth. Stop. Back and forth. Repeat.

  Every time he passed the door he pictured her on the other side—water running over her shoulders, hair dark and slick, stepping into his shirt—and had to physically turn away and press his forehead to the cold steel wall.

  He was going to combust.

  He was going to die.

  He was going to—

  "Breathe. It's been a while. I'm sure she's finished by now."

  Wriothesley gathering all the courage he needed. As if he was going to fight an army of Clockwork Metas.

  "You can do this. Man up!" Wriothesley encouraging himself. He paused. Took a deep breath and place his knuckles on the steel door.

  A soft knock came from outside.

  “Are you alright, Clo?” His voice cracked on her name. “D-do you need anything else?”

  A pause.

  Then her voice—quiet, steady, still a little breathless.

  “I’m alright, Wrio. I’m finished changing. You can come in now.”

  Wriothesley froze.

  He stared at the door like it might bite him.

  Then he gathered every scrap of courage he possessed, took one last steadying breath, and pushed it open.

  Clorinde stood near the bunks.

  His shirt hung on her like a dress—sleeves rolled up several times, hem brushing mid-thigh, collar slipping off one shoulder to reveal the delicate line of her collarbone. Her hair was damp, loose waves clinging to her neck; her cheeks were flushed from the hot water (and perhaps something else). She looked impossibly small in his clothes. And impossibly beautiful.

  Wriothesley forgot how to speak.

  Clorinde shifted—nervous, self-conscious—and tugged at the hem.

  “It’s… comfortable,” she said softly.

  He swallowed hard.

  “You look—” He stopped. Restarted. “Good. You look good.”

  She ducked her head, a tiny smile curving her lips.

  They stood there—awkward, flushed, hearts racing—two people who had just survived a kiss, a misunderstanding, and now the sight of her wearing his shirt like it belonged to her.

  And in that small, quiet room, with the hum of the Fortress all around them, they both understood:

  This night was only the beginning.

  And neither of them was ready for how long it would feel.