The midday sun bathed the Court of Fontaine in gentle gold, turning the central fountain into a living prism of light and water. Clorinde and Wriothesley sat on the rim for nearly an hour—mostly in companionable quiet, broken by short, halting sentences that felt both too small and too large for the years between them.

  Eventually Clorinde stood, brushing invisible dust from the midnight-blue hem of her dress. Wriothesley gently helping her with the basket.

  “There’s a café nearby,” she said, voice carefully even. “Café Lutece. You used to talk about their sweets all the time—how they looked like little jewels in the window, but you never had the chance to go inside. I thought… we could go. Try them. Together.”

  Wriothesley looked up at her, the corner of his mouth lifting in that old, half-smile she remembered from the alley.

  “You remembered that?”

  “I remember everything,” she answered simply.

  He rose, taller than she recalled, coat shifting across broad shoulders.

  “Then lead the way, Miss Champion.”

  They walked side by side—not touching, but close enough that their shadows overlapped on the cobblestones. They were in each other’s world. Neither noticed the flash of golden hair disappearing behind a manicured hedge as they passed.

  Navia crouched low, parasol clutched like a spy’s cloak, grinning so wide her cheeks hurt.

  “She’s still oblivious,” she cheekily whispered to herself. “Absolutely hopeless. Time for a little push.”

  Café Lutece smelled exactly as Wriothesley remembered: from outside, warm butter, vanilla, roasted coffee beans, and the faint citrus tang of fruit syrups lingered in the air. The interior was bright and airy, small round tables draped in white linen, sunlight pouring through tall windows. A handful of patrons murmured over porcelain cups; everyone paid the newcomers more than a passing glance. After all, no matter how much they look, it looked like they’re meant to be together.

  They chose a table near the window. Wriothesley sat first, looking slightly out of place in his dark coat among the pastel décor, but he relaxed fractionally when Clorinde slid into the seat opposite him.

  A server appeared almost immediately. Clorinde ordered for both of them—fruit-infused coffee for her, black tea with a side of the café’s signature fruit tarts for him. When the tray arrived, she pushed the small plate toward him.

  “Try one.”

  He picked up a tart—strawberry glazed with a delicate sheen—and took a careful bite. His eyes closed for a second.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “I guess this was also worth the wait.”

  Clorinde smiled—small, private, pleased.

  That was when Navia struck.

  She swept in from the side entrance like she owned the place, golden curls bouncing, dress a swirl of sunny yellow. She stopped at their table with theatrical surprise.

  “Clorinde! What a coincidence!”

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  Clorinde’s fork froze halfway to her mouth.

  Navia beamed down at Wriothesley, extending her hand with all the charm of Fontaine’s most beloved socialite.

  “And you must be the famous Duke of Meropide! I’ve heard so much about you. Clorinde talks about you constantly—she tells me everything, you know.”

  Wriothesley blinked once, twice, then rose politely and shook her hand.

  “Miss…?”

  “Navia! Navia Caspar of the Spina di Rosula. Pleasure to finally meet the man who she’s been mentioning all these years.”

  Clorinde’s eyes narrowed.

  Navia plopped into the empty chair without invitation.

  “So! How does it feel to be topside again? The air, the light, the pastries—oh, you have to try the lemon one next, it’s divine—”

  She launched into a cheerful monologue, directing most of it at Wriothesley, who answered with short, bemused replies while stealing increasingly confused glances at Clorinde.

  Clorinde’s knuckles whitened around her coffee cup.

  Navia knew exactly what she was doing.

  She kept talking—about the weather, about recent Spina projects, about how “Clorinde has been so distracted lately, I wonder why”—each sentence a deliberate needle.

  Clorinde’s composure cracked.

  She set her cup down with deliberate care.

  “Navia,” she said, voice dangerously calm. “May we speak outside?”

  Navia’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Of course!”

  They stepped onto the small patio. The moment the door closed behind them, Clorinde rounded on her.

  “Stop it.”

  Navia raised innocent hands. “Stop what? I’m just saying hello to your long-lost—”

  “I know you’re doing it on purpose.”

  “I’m actually helping, you know.” Navia corrected. “You’re still acting like this is a formal meeting between the Champion Duelist and the Duke. You’re not even holding his hand. You’re not even looking at him like you want to. You planned this whole day and you’re still holding back. Why?”

  Clorinde’s jaw tightened. “Because—”

  “Because you’re scared,” Navia finished gently. “Scared that if you admit how you feel, everything changes. But Clorinde… everything already changed the moment he stepped out of that elevator. You just haven’t let yourself feel it yet.”

  Clorinde opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked away.

  Navia squeezed her arm. “I’m going back in. And I’m going to keep talking to him until you do something about it. Your move, Champion.”

  She turned on her heel and re-entered the café.

  She strode back inside.

  Navia was already seated again, laughing at something Wriothesley had said, one hand resting casually on the table near his.

  Clorinde stood frozen for three heartbeats.

  Then something inside her snapped—not anger, exactly, but a surge of emotion so sharp it felt like possessiveness wearing jealousy’s clothes.

  Clorinde didn’t hesitate.

  She crossed the room in four strides, grabbed Wriothesley’s wrist—firm, unyielding—and pulled.

  “We’re leaving.”

  Wriothesley rose instantly, startled but compliant. “Clor—?”

  “Now.”

  She tugged him toward the door. He followed without resistance, though he shot one bewildered glance back at Navia.

  Navia met his eyes, winked broadly, and gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up as she waved goodbye.

  Outside, Clorinde didn’t stop. She kept walking—fast—hand still locked around his wrist, pulling him down a quieter side street until the café was out of sight.

  Only then did she release him.

  They stood in the shadow of a vine-covered wall, breathing hard.

  Wriothesley rubbed his wrist absently, looking down at her with a mixture of confusion and dawning amusement.

  “You okay?”

  Clorinde stared at the ground. Her cheeks were flushed—high, unmistakable color that had nothing to do with the walk.

  “I…” She exhaled sharply. “She was ruining it.”

  “Ruining what?” he asked. “My plans.”

  Silence stretched—awkward again, but different this time. Charged.

  He reached out slowly, tipped her chin up with one finger so she had to meet his eyes.

  “Hey.”

  She swallowed.

  “You dragged me out of there like I was yours to drag,” he said quietly. No mockery. Just observation. And something warmer underneath.

  Clorinde’s breath hitched.

  “Maybe,” she whispered, “I don’t know what came over me. I guess… at that moment, I felt like I didn’t like sharing you.”

  The admission hung between them—raw, unguarded, the first crack in the wall she had spent years building.

  Wriothesley’s expression softened into that old alley smile.

  “Then don’t.”

  He didn’t kiss her—not yet.

  But he didn’t step back either.

  And Clorinde—for once—didn’t retreat.

  They stood there, two people who had waited seven years to stand in the same sunlight, finally realizing that the space between them had never been distance.

  It had been anticipation.