Wriothesley stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still gripping the steel frame like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The hydro lamp above the bunks cast a soft amber halo around Clorinde, turning her damp hair into dark silk ribbons that clung to her neck and shoulders. His old black shirt draped over her like a claim she hadn’t even asked to make—sleeves rolled unevenly, collar slipping off one shoulder to expose the delicate ridge of her collarbone, hem brushing the tops of her thighs. The fabric was worn soft from years of use, but on her it looked almost indecently intimate: too big, too his, too thin where it clung to still-damp skin.

  He swallowed so hard his throat clicked.

  “You…” His voice came out gravel-rough. He cleared it. Tried again. “You look…”

  Clorinde’s arms crossed instinctively over her chest, though the motion only tugged the shirt tighter across her breasts and made the hem ride up another half-inch. She felt the air shift against newly bare legs and fought the urge to tug the fabric down.

  “…good?” she finished for him, half question, half dare.

  Wriothesley’s gaze snapped from the exposed skin of her thigh back to her face so fast it was almost comical.

  “More than good,” he managed. “Dangerously good.” ruffling his hair at the back of his head.

  Then, a beat.

  Then Clorinde’s lips twitched.

  “You’re staring.”

  “You’re wearing my shirt,” he countered, like that explained everything. “I think I’m allowed to stare.”

  She huffed a laugh—short, nervous—and the sound seemed to break whatever spell had been holding him in place. He stepped fully inside and let the door slide shut behind him with a quiet hiss. The room suddenly felt half its size.

  Clorinde shifted her weight. The borrowed shirt slid another fraction against her skin; she felt every millimeter of contact like a live wire. Wriothesley tracked the movement—eyes darkening, pupils blown—and then very deliberately looked at the ceiling.

  “I should—” He gestured vaguely toward the bottom bunk. “I’ll take this one.”

  She nodded too quickly. “Right. Good. Sensible.”

  They both moved at the same time—awkward, jerky, like teenagers who’d never shared a room before. Which, Clorinde realized with a jolt, they hadn’t. Not like this. Not ever.

  She climbed the short ladder to the top bunk; he dropped onto the mattress below with enough force to make the frame creak. The silence that followed was deafening.

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  Wriothesley turned his head to the climbing Clorinde to the top bunk. Her bare legs shined under the hydro lamps. He should've looked away. He couldn't.

  Then he took a big gulp—

  “You’re breathing really loud,” she said to the ceiling.

  “You’re rustling the sheets like you’re trying to start a fire,” he shot back from below.

  Another beat.

  “Are you... comfortable?” he asked.

  “Are you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sound like you’re being strangled.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Clorinde rolled onto her side, peered over the edge of the bunk. In the dim light she could just make out his profile: jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the underside of her mattress like it had personally offended him, one arm thrown over his face.

  “Wrio.”

  He didn’t move the arm. “Yeah?”

  “You’re not breathing.”

  He exhaled explosively. “I’m trying not to.”

  She bit her lip to keep from laughing. but she failed.

  The sound drifted down to him—soft, breathy—and Wriothesley groaned.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Laugh like that. Up there. In my shirt. It’s—” He waved a hand helplessly. “Very distracting.”

  Clorinde’s own face heated. “You’re the one who gave me the shirt.”

  “I know. Worst decision of my life. No. Best decision of my life. I’m saying nonsense. Sorry.”

  She snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Says the woman wearing nothing but my shirt in my bed.”

  “I'll have you know, I’m wearing my underwear,” she corrected primly.

  A strangled noise from below.

  “Clorinde.”

  “What?”

  “Stop talking about your underwear.”

  “You brought it up!”

  “I’m hanging on by a thread here!”

  She pressed her lips together, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

  Below her, Wriothesley dragged his forearm across his eyes.

  “I can hear you smiling,” he accused.

  “I can hear you not breathing again. Why don't you relax a little?”

  "Do you really think I can?" He sucked in an exaggerated breath. “Happy?”

  “I'm beyond thrilled.”

  Silence stretched—thicker now, warmer, laced with something heavier than amusement.

  Clorinde rolled onto her back again. Stared at the ceiling pipes.

  “Wrio?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This feels... strange.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But not bad strange.”

  A pause.

  “Not bad at all,” he agreed quietly.

  She turned her head toward the edge again, even though she couldn’t see him.

  “You know, I’ve never...” She swallowed. “Slept in the same room with someone else. Not like this.”

  “Me neither.”

  Another long beat.

  “It feels different,” she murmured.

  “Yeah,” he echoed. “It feels... filling.”

  Clorinde smiled closed her eyes.

  “Goodnight, Wrio.”

  A rustle from below—sheets shifting, mattress creaking.

  “Goodnight, Clor.”

  Neither of them moved after that.

  But neither of them slept, either.

  The room stayed warm. Too warm.

  The ventilation hummed.

  The mattress below her creaked every time he shifted.

  And every time he shifted, she felt it—like a current running straight through the metal frame into her own body.

  She pressed her thighs together. Bit her lip. Tried to breathe evenly.

  Below her, Wriothesley stared at the underside of her bunk and counted backward from one hundred.

  He failed at thirty-seven.

  Twice.

  The night stretched on—long, restless, electric.

  They didn’t speak again.

  They didn’t need to.

  The tension between them spoke louder than words ever could.

  And somewhere in the small hours, when exhaustion finally began to win, Clorinde’s hand slipped over the edge of the bunk—just far enough that her fingertips floated under the dim lights.

  Wriothesley got up without thinking.

  He reached for her hand.

  Interlocking their fingers together.

  And held on.

  He stared at her sleeping face. "Beautiful." Smiling softly like he won every pankration duel of his life.

  He pulled her fingers to his lips, closed his eyes and kissed her knuckles.

  "Goodnight, Clor." he whispered.

  Wriothesley never let go until morning.