Wriothesley closed the office door behind them with a soft click that felt louder than it should have. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the Fortress’s distant machinery and the faint trickle of water through hidden hydro conduits. He moved to the small kettle on the side table—more out of habit than necessity—and began preparing tea with hands that were steadier than his heartbeat.

  “Chamomile and mint,” he said, not quite looking at her. “Sigewinne’s blend. Helps with… everything, apparently.”

  Clorinde watched him from the center of the room, arms loosely folded, still wearing the midnight-blue uniform that now felt both too formal yet slightly intimate for this space. She accepted the cup he offered, their fingers brushing for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The contact sent a small, involuntary shiver through her.

  They sat—her on the edge of the worn armchair, him on the corner of the desk—close enough that their knees nearly touched.

  After a few sips, Clorinde glanced around again, taking in the details she hadn’t noticed before: the neatly made cot tucked against the far wall, the folded blanket, the single pillow that looked like it had never been used properly.

  “So,” she asked, voice soft but curious, “where do you sleep?”

  Wriothesley jolted. The teacup rattled dangerously against the saucer. He almost choked at the tea he sipped.

  “I—mostly here.” He gestured vaguely toward the couch-like bench built into the wall. “By the couch there. Sigewinne always yells at me for it. Says I’m going to ruin my back.”

  Clorinde’s lips curved. “You two must be really close.”

  He flushed instantly. “I wouldn’t say that close.”

  She laughed—quiet, warm. “No, I didn’t mean that. I’m glad she’s here with you.”

  He exhaled, tension easing slightly from his shoulders.

  “Yeah. She’s been… nothing but helpful to me. When I first got here, I was—” He paused, searching for the right word. “well... angry. At everything. At myself most of all. She patched me up after my first pankration fight. She didn’t ask questions. Just… stayed. Kept showing up. After a while, I realized she wasn’t going to leave no matter how much I tried to push her away. So I stopped pushing.”

  Clorinde listened, cup cradled between her palms. "I'm glad." smiling slightly at the imagery.

  “For me,” she said after a moment, “I guess it’s Navia. She's always been there for me. I thought our friendship ended when… that incident happened.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  She didn’t need to say his name. Wriothesley already knew.

  “Sir Callas—her father—challenged me for the duelist title. I won. He died.” Her voice stayed even, but her fingers tightened around the cup. “I still regret that day. I know Navia said she had already forgiven me, but I still wish there had been another way.”

  Wriothesley set his own cup down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  “Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

  She looked up.

  He reached out—slowly—and cupped her chin with careful fingers, stopping her from biting her lip until it bled.

  “I’m sure it was an honorable duel,” he continued. “You can’t control the outcome. My only regret is that I didn’t get to see you win.”

  His thumb brushed once across her lower lip—gentle, grounding.

  Clorinde’s eyes shimmered.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “For always thinking about me. About how I feel.”

  He smiled—small, soft, the old alley smile she had missed so much.

  “It’s getting late,” she said after a long pause, voice suddenly small. A yawn slipped out—unintended, unguarded. She flushed instantly, pressing her fingers to her lips. “Sorry. I guess after everything today… talking over tea… my body finally felt safe enough to relax.”

  Wriothesley’s expression softened further.

  “You don’t have to apologize for anything.” He stood, offering his hand. “I’ll guide you to your room for tonight.”

  He led her down a short corridor to a small, rarely used guest chamber adjacent to his office. The room was simple: a narrow bunk bed built into the wall, clean linens, a single hydro lamp, a small porthole window showing nothing but deep water and faint lights from lower levels.

  “This was supposed to be my room,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck again. “But I rarely use it. I usually end up sleeping in the office anyway. Sigewinne might scold me again in the morning.”

  Clorinde looked at the two bunks—upper and lower—then at him.

  “Where are you going to sleep?”

  “In the office,” he said automatically. “Even though—”

  “Sleep here.”

  The words burst out before she could stop them.

  Wriothesley short-circuited.

  “What?!”

  Clorinde’s face flamed. “I—I mean—this is originally your room. And there are two beds. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  He stared at her, mouth slightly open.

  “But… we’re…”

  “It’s alright!” she rushed on, words tumbling. “Nothing’s going to happen... right?”

  Wriothesley looked away, laughed nervously, and rubbed his face with both hands.

  “R-right. If you’re really okay with it... then I guess I can take you up on that.”

  They stood there—sweating profusely, hearts racing, the room suddenly ten degrees warmer.

  “Is it always this hot in here?” Clorinde asked, fanning herself with one hand.

  “No,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “It’s usually cold. But tonight maybe there’s a malfunction at the cooling unit. I might have to... check on that.”

  He laughed—awkward, breathless.

  She laughed too—high and nervous.

  They stared at each other.

  Wriothesley cleared his throat.

  “I’ll… let you change first,” he mumbled, turning his back like a gentleman in a bad novel.

  Clorinde stared at his back—broad, tense, ears scarlet—and felt something warm and terrifying bloom in her chest.

  Then—slowly—both of them began to smile.

  The tension broke into something softer, sweeter.

  Wriothesley cleared his throat again—several times—and busied himself pulling spare linens from a cabinet. He handed her a neatly folded set, then realized he was still holding them too tightly and dropped them on the top bunk.

  “I’ll… take the bottom bunk,” he said. “You can have the top. Safer that way.”

  Clorinde nodded—still flushed, still smiling.

  This was going to be the longest night of their lives.

  And neither of them minded one bit.