They stood under the lantern-lit arch long after the kiss ended, foreheads still touching, breaths mingling in the cool night air. Clorinde’s hands rested lightly on Wriothesley’s chest; his arms encircled her waist, thumbs tracing slow, unconscious circles over the silk of her dress. The world had narrowed to the space between their bodies—warmth, heartbeat, the faint tremor that still lingered in both of them.

  Clorinde spoke first, voice barely above a whisper.

  “I don’t want to go home tonight.”

  Wriothesley’s arms tightened reflexively.

  “My father…” she continued, voice cracking on the word. “He—he made it clear. If I choose you, I lose him. As if he cared for me. I don’t care anymore.” She lifted her head, violet eyes searching his. “Take me somewhere, Wrio. Anywhere. Just… not there.”

  A burst of emotion flooded her—relief, fear, defiance, longing—all crashing together until her throat tightened and her vision blurred.

  Wriothesley blinked. “W-what?”

  She looked up at him, earnest, vulnerable in a way he had rarely seen.

  “You said you wanted to be with me,” she murmured. “Don’t you want to?”

  The words landed differently for each of them.

  For Clorinde, they meant exactly what she said: escape the cold house waiting for her, the father who had never once chosen her happiness over his principles. She wanted refuge. Safety. Him.

  For Wriothesley, they meant something entirely, terrifyingly different.

  His brain short-circuited.

  Heat flooded his face—cheeks, neck, ears—turning him a vivid shade of ripe tomato. His hands froze on her waist. Eyes widened. Mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

  He grabbed her shoulders—gently, but firmly—and pushed her back half a step, creating the smallest sliver of distance.

  “You mean to say… we should…” He searched for words, failed, tried again. “You want to—”

  Clorinde tilted her head, genuinely puzzled by the sudden panic in his expression.

  “Wrio?”

  He remembered—suddenly, mortifyingly—something Sigewinne had once said during one of her late-night “life advice” sessions in the infirmary.

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  “When people fall in love,” she had explained with clinical cheerfulness, “they often want to spend the night together. You know. Together together.”

  His mind had blanked then.

  It was blanking now.

  He took a huge, gulping breath.

  “Do… do you want to stay for… the night?” The words came out strangled, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air.

  Clorinde stared at him for a full three seconds.

  Then, the understanding dawned.

  Her eyes widened. Shocked. She stumbled backward five full steps, one hand flying to cover her mouth.

  “I—didn’t mean that!” she cried, voice pitching high with horror. “You idiot!”

  Steam—figurative but almost visible—rose from both their heads.

  “I meant let’s go somewhere else and stay there!” she rambled, words tumbling over each other. “Like… somewhere quiet! Somewhere we can talk! Or—or not talk! Just—not home! Not that kind of staying! I would never—I mean—not that I wouldn’t—but not tonight—not like—”

  Wriothesley stared at her rambling for a full ten seconds then buried his face with both hands.

  “I’m an idiot,” he groaned through his fingers.

  They stared at each other—her mortified, him humiliated—and then, at the exact same moment, burst out laughing.

  The sound rang through the quiet garden—bright, helpless, cleansing. Clorinde doubled over slightly, clutching her stomach; Wriothesley leaned against the arch, shoulders shaking. Tears of pure embarrassment pricked both their eyes.

  After a long minute, Clorinde straightened, wiping at her cheeks.

  “What were you thinking, you pervert!” she teased, voice still shaky with laughter.

  “It’s because of what you said!” he shot back, pointing an accusing finger. “You said ‘take me somewhere’ and ‘stay the night’ in the same breath! What was I supposed to think?”

  “Y-You shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions!”

  “You shouldn’t have worded it like an invitation to—” He cut himself off, flushing darker. “Never mind.” He sighed.

  They laughed again—shorter this time, softer.

  When the laughter faded, Wriothesley rubbed the back of his neck.

  “I’m sorry, Clor.” he said quietly. “For assuming you wanted to—.” He looked at her. “And for… panicking.”

  Clorinde shook her head. “I’m sorry for wording it badly. I just—” She looked up at him, suddenly shy again. “I meant what I said. I don’t want to go home tonight.”

  He studied her—really studied her. The faint flush still on her cheeks. The way her fingers twisted together nervously. The quiet determination in her eyes.

  “So…” he ventured. “Would you like to go back with me? To the Fortress?”

  She blinked.

  “That’s where I wanted to go,” she answered simply.

  A slow, relieved smile spread across his face.

  He extended his hand—scarred, callused, rough from years of gauntlets and survival.

  “Can I… hold your hand?” he asked, almost shy. “I know they’re not… soft.”

  Clorinde looked at his hand. Then at his face.

  She stepped forward, slid her fingers through his, and laced them together firmly.

  “You don’t need to ask next time,” she said softly.

  He exhaled—a shaky, grateful sound—and squeezed her hand.

  They walked like that—hand in hand—down the lantern-lit path, away from the plaza, toward the Fortress checkpoint.

  Neither spoke for a long while.

  They didn’t need to.

  The misunderstanding had been ridiculous.

  The feelings beneath it were not.

  And for the first time in years, both of them felt like they were walking toward something instead of running from it.

  The night stretched ahead—quiet, uncertain, full of possibility.

  And neither of them was afraid anymore.