Wriothesley lingered at Clorinde’s gate long after the door had closed behind her, his lips still tingling from the goodbye kiss. The air of Fontaine carried the faint mist from the fountains, but all he could smell was her—mint from his own tea mingled with the subtle fruit notes of her perfume, a scent that had imprinted itself on his skin during their embrace. He turned slowly, hand flexing where hers had been moments ago, and began the walk back to the Fortress checkpoint. His steps were unhurried, mind replaying the kiss in vivid detail: the way her lips had parted under his, soft and insistent; the small, needy sound she had made when he deepened it; the press of her body against his, curves fitting perfectly into the hard planes of his chest. It had been passionate, yes, but also something more— a sealing of confessions, a bridge between seven years of longing and the uncertainty of the future ahead.

  By the time he reached the elevator and descended into Meropide’s depths, the reality of the day had begun to settle. He had duties waiting—reports to review, rotations to adjust, the endless machinery of the Fortress that required his constant vigilance. But today, for the first time in years, those tasks felt secondary. He moved through the administrative level with mechanical efficiency, signing off on supply manifests and addressing a minor dispute in the pankration ring, but his mind was elsewhere. She’s coming back tonight. The thought looped endlessly, a mix of anticipation and nerves that made his scarred knuckles itch to punch something—preferably not another innocent tree.

  Sigewinne found him in his office mid-afternoon, buried in paperwork but staring blankly at the same report for the third time.

  “You look absentminded,” she observed, hopping onto the edge of his desk with her usual ease. Her pink hair bow bobbed as she tilted her head, eyes narrowing in assessment. “But, happier. But also like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin.”

  Wriothesley leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

  “Clorinde’s coming here,” he said simply. “Tonight. To… stay.”

  Sigewinne’s eyes widened. Then a knowing smile spread across her face.

  “Ah. Stay. As in—”

  “Yes,” he interrupted, voice gruff. “That kind of stay. Or… at least, that’s the plan.”

  She clapped her small hands together, delighted. “Finally! I’ve been waiting for this. You two have been dancing around each other like Melusines around a hydro crystal for years.”

  Wriothesley shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not that simple. We’re both… new to this.”

  Sigewinne’s expression turned serious, though her eyes still sparkled with mischief. “Then let me give you some advice. About… mating.”

  Wriothesley choked on air. “Sigewinne—”

  She held up a hand. “Don’t interrupt. I’m a nurse. This is my domain.” She cleared her throat, adopting a lecturing tone that was equal parts clinical and conspiratorial. “First: communication. Talk to her. Ask what she likes. What she doesn’t. Humans are complicated; don’t assume you know everything just because you’ve kissed a few times.”

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  He buried his face in his hands. “We haven’t even—”

  “Second,” she continued, undeterred, “be gentle. You’re strong—stronger than you think sometimes. Pay attention to her cues. If she tenses, slow down. If she relaxes, you’re doing something right.”

  Wriothesley groaned. “Ugh! This is mortifying.”

  “Third: protection. I have some herbal blends in the infirmary if you—”

  “Enough!” He shot to his feet, face burning brighter than a Pyro slime. “I get it. Thank you. Really. But I think I can handle it from here.”

  Sigewinne hopped down, smiling innocently. “Just looking out for you, Your Grace. Go get ready. And remember—relax. She chose you for a reason.”

  He watched her go, then sank back into his chair with a long exhale. Get ready. The words echoed. He glanced around the office—papers scattered, greenhouse thriving but unkempt—and felt a sudden urge to tidy. He straightened stacks, wiped dust from the teacups, even rearranged the mint pots until they looked symmetrical. It was ridiculous. Pointless. But it kept his hands busy while his mind raced with anticipation—and a low, simmering nervousness that made his stomach twist.

  Meanwhile, above ground, Clorinde made her way back to Café Lutece.

  The morning had blurred into afternoon; the plaza was bustling with vendors and early lunch crowds. She spotted Navia at their usual table—golden curls shining, a fresh fruit tart already half-devoured—and felt a wave of relief wash over her. Navia looked up as she approached, eyes lighting with curiosity.

  “You look… different,” Navia said, gesturing to the chair opposite her. “More like glowing. I saw the two of you walking with your hands together. What happened? Spill everything.”

  Clorinde sat, exhaling slowly. She told her everything—from the private summons and Furina’s unexpected mercy, to the emotional weight of her newfound freedom, to the quiet promise she had made with Wriothesley on the steps. And then—hesitantly, with a flush creeping up her neck—the more explicit details: the interrupted intimacy in the bunk, the way his hands had felt on her skin, the hunger that had surprised even her.

  Navia’s eyes widened progressively wider, her teacup frozen halfway to her mouth. By the time Clorinde finished—voice dropping to a whisper on the part where she had whispered “touch me more”—Navia was fanning herself with one hand, cheeks pink.

  “S-stop!” Navia yelped, half-laughing, half-scandalized. “You don’t need to tell me everything, Clor! I mean—gods, the details! His hands? The bunk? You’re killing me here!”

  Clorinde blinked, confused. “But you asked for everything.”

  Navia buried her face in her hands, peeking through her fingers. I didn’t even know she had this side of her, she thought, mind reeling. The unflappable Champion Duelist, spilling about heated bunk-bed moments like it’s afternoon tea gossip. Who is this woman?

  Out loud, she groaned. “Yes, but I meant the emotional stuff! Not the… vivid play-by-play. I’m getting secondhand embarrassment here—I’m fanning myself from too much information here!”

  Clorinde’s own cheeks warmed. “Sorry. I just… needed to talk about it. It’s all so new.”

  Navia softened, lowering her hands. “Hey—no, it’s fine. Really. I’m happy for you. Thrilled, actually. You deserve this. All of it. The freedom, the man, the… everything.” She winked. “Just maybe leave out the steamier bits next time. Or warn me so I can prepare with a fan.”

  Clorinde laughed—soft, relieved.

  The afternoon wore on, but the night Clorinde wanted—the night she had been craving since the interrupted moment in his room—was drawing near. She parted from Navia with a hug and a promise to update her (minus the details), then headed toward the Fortress checkpoint, heart racing with a mix of anticipation and nerves.

  Little did Wriothesley know, she had every intention of finishing what they had started. And this time, nothing would interrupt.