Deliver Me From Temptation

****************************

Francis' Fifth Lifetime:

The scent of turpentine and rain filled his nose before his eyes opened to gaslight and cobblestone.

He was not Francis then.

He was Laurie, a gentleman by birth, a painter by trade. The evening had found him returning from a stroll, sketchpad in hand, when he saw the girl perched like a shadow on the ledge. She sat still as death, staring down into the black waters below.

He ran to her. No time for thought, no time for words.

She fought him, fists flailing, nails clawing like a cornered cat. But then the tears came, hot and heavy, and she broke. She shattered in his arms, and all he could do was hold her together.

Laurie brought her home, past gas lamps and startled servants. He fed her, clothed her, washed the dirt from her skin and the dried blood from her knuckles. She bore wounds no girl should bear, old and deep, and he treated them with a tenderness that no one had ever shown her. The house whispered of the poor thing the young master had dragged in from the gutter, but Laurie had always been kind. And none dared say otherwise to his face.

They expected him to send her away once she healed. He never did.

In time, she came to sit by his window as he painted, eyes watching the strokes of his brush. Later, he would teach her—colours, textures, canvas work. She learned quickly, worked quietly, and soon earned her keep. The whispers fell silent.

She became his muse.

Laurie painted her in candlelight, in sun, in sorrow. He painted her laughing, though she rarely did. And when he looked at her, he no longer saw the girl from the bridge. He saw something holy, something broken and yet untouched by rot. He loved her, utterly.

And when he brought out his mother's ring, wrapped in blue silk and trembling in his palm, he meant to place it on her finger. He meant to ask her to stay forever.

But fate, as ever, has teeth.

She said no.

****************************

Francis shifts in his bed, fists clenched in the silk sheets. His breath comes uneven. It's rough as another dream takes shape, rising like smoke behind his eyes.

****************************

Francis' First Lifetime:

Francis knew the summons had come from his father. The King had called for Marion.

He'd heard the whispers even before the messengers reached the palace halls. The plan was already in motion—to appoint Lady Marion of Highcourt to the King's Council once he ascends. The first woman ever granted such an honour. A seat among the kingdom's most powerful men, sanctioned by a monarch who rarely changed his mind once made. But the King liked her. Always had. Just as he once liked her mother, the late Baroness of Highcourt—sharp-witted, poised, and tragically slain before she could claim her own promised place on that same council.

It was the King's way of making amends.

That's why Marion had been raised in the capital for some time, tutored alongside him since childhood. It had never been about love. Not in the eyes of the court. The King and the Baron had made their pact long ago: to raise a stateswoman, not a bride.

But now, the King had changed the game again.

A betrothal was arranged, Francis to a princess from the southern borders. A diplomatic marriage, bolstered by cavalry and coin. Declining it would risk war. And yet, he hadn't given his consent. Couldn't. Not when every inch of his soul still bent toward the girl from Dargery Hall.

Not when he still loved her.

So, he sent for Marion. Under the pretence of reform talks, of reviewing new policies the King wanted his future council to weigh in on.

Marion came, of course. She always did. That thread between them hadn't snapped yet—not entirely.

She stepped into the study, her uniform sharp, her boots still dusty from the field. She looked like a commander. Hard, calm, beautiful.

"You asked for me," she said, voice level.

"Come closer," Francis said.

She did, but not eagerly. Not like before.

"You've been in the keep for days," he said. "And you haven't tried to speak with me."

"I was summoned by His Majesty," Marion replied. "I wasn't here on a social visit. Not to have tea or indulge your sulking."

That stung. Francis felt it like a slap, though she hadn't raised a hand. She wasn't angry—she was distant. Worse.

He reached for her slowly, giving her time to stop him. She didn't. He took that as something. Maybe hope.

His hands cupped her face, tilting it upward. She didn't meet his gaze.

"Marry me," he said.

Marion flinched. Not outwardly—but he felt it in the way her breath hitched. "Don't do this."

"But you're not pulling away," he said, voice barely a whisper now. "Why aren't you pulling away, Marion?"

She looked at the fireplace, at the carved maps on the wall, at anything but him. "Because I don't want to fight you. Not here. Not now."

Francis pulled her into an embrace. He held her like it might be the last time—because it might. Her body remained stiff, but her breathing betrayed her. Heavy. Slow. Like she was trying to stay composed. Trying to make a decision she hated.

"I can't lose you," he murmured into her hair.

She didn't speak.

So, he pulled back, searched her face, her mouth, those eyes he knew too well.

"Francis," she whispered, "we can't."

"You always say that," he said, a bitter edge lacing his voice.

And then he kissed her.

Not soft, not sweet—but with hunger. Desperation. Like a man on the verge of losing everything.

—

There was a time she had loved him, he knew.

Francis had been her first love. The wide-eyed prince with dirt under his fingernails who sneaked her pastries from the royal kitchens and listened to her ramble about tactics and treaties as if they were poetry. He was the only one who never told her to speak less, to smile more. He'd watched her become the heir Highcourt needed. He'd made her feel, for a time, that she could be both—baroness and girl.

But that girl was gone now.

Buried under years of frost and fire, beneath titles and losses and the steel of duty. Marion did not believe in soft things anymore.

And yet... she didn't pull away.

She let him kiss her.

Not because she still loved him, not in the way he hoped. But because this was the last time. And some ghosts deserved a proper burial.

Marion let him hold her as though he still had a claim. Let him pretend for a moment that the world hadn't changed, that he hadn't waited too long to choose her. She stood still and let the kiss break over her like a wave against stone. She did not return it, but she did not resist it either.

Her hands, limp at her sides, did not move to grasp his coat. Her lips did not part. But her eyes—her eyes closed, not out of affection, but mercy.

This was the goodbye he would never say aloud.

When he finally pulled away, the ache in his face twisted into something like hope.

But Marion only opened her eyes, steady as a blade. "Don't do that again," she said softly, not cruel, just tired.

Francis's eyes turned red—not with rage, but something far more fragile. "You're leaving me," he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of it. "I love you, Marion."

His hand trembled as it reached for her face, desperate. "Please. Look at me."

She did.

Her eyes, clear and sharp, met his like drawn blades. But her voice was gentle when she answered, "You can't love me, Francis. You're betrothed now."

His expression froze. As if the words struck him more than her slap ever could. "How did you—You had people watching me?"

Marion didn't blink. "I had people watching everyone."

Spies. Whisper networks she had built even before her brother's campaigns, refined for courtly maneuvering. Effective in battle, better in politics. He should have known.

"You know I won't marry her," he said quickly, desperately. "I'll fight the court if I have to. You're the one I want, Ma—"

"People will die, Francis," she cut him off, voice low but firm. "You think this court is a stage for your heartbreak? Your marriage to the princess is the only thing staving off a war. Don't be stupid."

But he wasn't listening. He only saw her. He grabbed her again, kissed her with the stubbornness of a child clinging to a broken toy.

This time, Marion pushed him back hard.

And slapped him.

The sound rang sharp across the chamber. Her palm burned.

"I said," she said, breathing hard, "don't do that again."

Francis stared at her, stunned—not by the slap, but by the truth finally breaking through.

He could feel it now.

Not the sting on his cheek, but the hollow, spreading pain of loss—raw and final.

He was losing her.

"Do you want me to beg?" Francis whispered.

He looked pathetic now—shoulders hunched, pride forgotten, tears beginning to fall freely down his cheeks. Marion had never seen him like this. The crown prince reduced to a grieving boy.

Before he could lower himself any further, Marion reached for him and pulled him close. Her hands, firm and warm, cupped his tear-streaked face.

"If they told you... you'd lose the crown if you took me," she asked quietly, "would you give it up?"

Francis stared at her.

"The court would never ask that of me. I'm the heir apparent."

Marion's hands tensed.

"That's not what I asked."

A single tear slid down her cheek. "Would you give it up? Because I will not be your secret. I won't be your kept woman, Francis. Not even for love."

His breath hitched, and his tears fell faster. He lowered his head—shame blooming like rot inside his chest. They both knew the answer. Of course they did.

He would never give it up.

He was raised with a crown in his crib, fed with silver politics, taught nothing else but how to be king.

It was the only thing he knew.

"Do you love me?" he asked, barely audible.

Marion did not answer right away. Silence stretched between them like a taut rope.

"Say it," Francis pleaded.

Her eyes lifted to meet his. And in that moment, he wished he hadn't asked.

"No," she said.

And her tears fell.

She stepped away. It hurt her too. God, it hurt her.

But she moved, turned, walked toward the door.

"Marion!" Francis called out. "I am your prince—your future king! You will not turn your back on me without my leave!"

Marion stopped.

She closed her eyes. Bit back the fury, the ache, the indignity of it all.

Then slowly, with a composure that burned him more than rage ever could, she turned back.

And she curtsied.

Perfectly. Precisely.

He had seen her do it a few times as a girl to foreign dignitaries, to generals, once to a king. But he never thought she would do it to him.

"Your Highness," she said.

Then she turned, opened the door, and left without another word.

When the door shut, Francis stood in place for one breath. Then another.

And then he screamed—and began breaking everything he could reach.

The study, once orderly and noble, echoed with the sound of shattering glass, splintering wood, and the heartbreak of a crown prince who had just lost the only thing that ever made him feel human.

****************************

Francis jolts awake, like something dragged him out of the dark by force. He gasps for breath, heart pounding, sweat cold on his skin. Names swirl in his mind. But only one makes it to his lips.

And it's the name of the ghost.

—

She could have flown.

Her wings, invisible but ever-present, could have carried her straight home from the Soul District. But she didn't. Instead, she walks, the pleated skirt whispering at her knees with every step.

The mission had distracted her for a while. There had been noise, blood, something to focus on. But now she's alone. And her thoughts, ever traitorous and relentless, begin to stir again.

It began in the Archives. After the Custodian opened her books, and she saw what she was never meant to remember.

Twelve lifetimes. Twelve iterations of suffering, sacrifice, loss—some noble, some small, some horrific. All hers. Her soul stretched thin across time, burned and bound, and still enduring.

If she hadn't been tempered in hellfire, she would have lost her sanity. Not that there's much of it left, there's barely anything holding her together.

The streets in this part of the district are quiet. Few reapers live here anymore. Only the sentimental ones—the old souls clinging to antique brickwork and gas lamp echoes. Most have moved closer to the Central Ring, where the buildings shimmer like the living realm and nothing smells like memory.

She's glad they left. She prefers this quiet. It's the only thing that doesn't mirror the inside of her mind. A place now where everything screams.

She stops at a bench she's passed a hundred times but never really seen until now and sits.

Her thoughts drift back. To that book marked fifth.

To him.

To that life.

He was Laurie then.

Francis, now.

She'd remembered him just before they met again. Almost as if something deep within her had been bracing for it. And now, she wonders—is that why she always found herself on that damn balcony at Halcyon?

Not because of the view. Not even the air.

But because her soul felt him.

As if some string, buried in blood and time, had been pulling her toward him long before her mind caught up.

Clark reaches for her hair, fingers absently twirling the thin red thread tied there. The Custodian told her a soul was saved in exchange for her sainthood. Is it him? Was Francis the one the thread once led to?

She exhales, slow and quiet, like something inside her is trying not to shatter. With one last glance at the thread, she shoves her hands in her jacket pockets and continues the walk home.

As she rounds the corner to her house, her pace becomes slower. The heels of her shoes clack softly against cobblestone, a lonely rhythm in the dim hush of the old neighbourhood.

But then, she stops. Not from fear, no, fear is for the living. This is something else entirely.

There, outside her bookshop that stands tucked between a forgotten apothecary and a crumbling tower is a figure, so out of place.

He's leaning against the gatepost like he's been there a while—arms crossed, face unreadable, suit still too crisp for someone who's just passing by. The streetlamp above him flickers, casting shadows over his cheekbones and catching the faint glint of his cufflinks.

She walks slowly toward him and observes his tie is loosened. And his hair's down, it looks softer and messier, quite unusual. Because he's the golden boy of the Veil. He is proper and always polished. He won't even smile unless the guidelines allow it.

It's been two days of him pretending she does not exist, and now he shows up at her door looking like he's lost something.

"What are you doing here?"

He looks up, and she catches a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He's so lost in thought he didn't even hear her approach.

He tries to think of something—anything—clever. But all that comes out is a quiet, "I don't know."

Clark lowers her head, says nothing. But a hand comes up to her mouth, stifling a laugh. Not the usual sly chuckle or teasing snort, but a sound so soft and unexpectedly sweet it tugs at something in his chest.

Clarence blinks. "What?"

"Nothing," she says, still smiling. "It's just good to know you're not perfect all the time." She steps forward and unlocks the door. "Do you want to come in? But I should warn you, it's not as grand—"

He's already walking inside.

The shop smells of old paper and ink. It's dark, save for the dim twilight pushing through dusty windows and a single lamp casting a warm pool of light on a reading table. Clark clicks her fingers, and suddenly, dozens of candles flicker to life. They spill their glow across the wood floors and shelves, shadows dancing like memories.

"You don't believe in electricity?" Clarence asks, eyes tracking the golden light.

"I like the old ways," she answers, "Besides, it brings out the charm of the place."

She disappears for a moment, returns with delicate bone china cups with a matching teapot. "Sorry, no strong stuff. The good tea's still legal though, if you want it."

Clarence just nods, sinking into a couch an ocean of midnight velvet, the blue so dark it bordered on black. It looks like something a widow would faint onto—graceful, expensive, and quietly tragic.

He watches her move with ease in the space—comfortable, familiar. She takes out the tea, loose-leaf, kept in ornate tins. And measures it with care, one teaspoon for each cup, and one for the pot.

"It's cold here," Clarence murmurs.

Clark doesn't look up from her tea leaves. "You forget. I like the cold."

He remembers. Of course. It's why she never bothers with thick clothing, even when the streets outside are frozen over.

"Do you mind if I light a fire? You're going to need it for the kettle too."

Clark tips her head in approval.

He finds the fireplace and the stack of wood beside it. In moments, he's coaxed a steady flame to life, the fire licking at the logs with a satisfying crackle.

Clark's eyes gleam in curiosity. "I always thought you were the type who had known servants all his life. Didn't expect you to know how to do that."

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me," Clarence says quietly, returning to his seat.

The water boils so is the silence.

The tea smells faintly of bergamot as Clark pours it over the leaves. Steam rises in delicate spirals, like silken ghosts, twirling lazily toward the ceiling before curling around her like an embrace.

Clarence watches her quietly, as if speaking might shatter whatever enchantment holds the moment together. There's a softness in his gaze, something fragile and throbbing.

And when she sits, she takes the other end of the couch, making room for the stillness that slowly stretches. Clarence takes a cup and leans back staring at the ancient walls, the golden flames from the candles. Anywhere but her.

She nods, sipping her tea. "This is fun."

"We're not even doing anything," he replies, almost against the rim of his cup.

"Exactly." She beams. "Do you know this is even harder than doing something? Sitting here like this, without distractions, wistfully letting time pass by. It's rather intimate, wouldn't you say?"

Clarence almost chokes on his tea.

Clark laughs again, wicked and warm.

He glances at her finally, with an unreadable expression. She's right, of course. The lull between them is heavy with something unspoken. To sit like this after days of silence—it says more than any apology ever could. And it makes his cold heart hurt in the gentlest way.

They've both been pretending to still drink for almost an hour. The cups are empty. The kettle too. But neither of them moves.

Eventually, Clarence stands.

Clark shifts. She thinks he's leaving.

But he doesn't. Instead, he wanders toward the long line of shelves along the wall across from them.

"You know I have quite a selection," she says, following him with her eyes. "They say the books here are the ones humans wished they'd written. Some big names in there too—dreamt stories they never dared to write. The things people almost said... will surprise you."

Almost.

Yes, he's had his fair share of almosts.

He pulls a heavy tome from the shelf, dust blooming in the amber light, and sets it down on the table.

Clarence spreads the pages. They are old, but still, there's undeniable beauty in them.

She walks over and leans in. She's too close, the distance is making the demons inside Clarence revel.

"Look at it," she whispers. Her fingers begin to trace the lettering, eyes sparkling with admiration. "These quatrefoils and the vibrant colours, they don't make books like this anymore."

He can't stop himself from looking at her now. The way her face lights up, and that soft smile she used to have back then when something fascinated her. Lifetimes passed, but it hasn't changed one bit.

"Do you want to read it?" he offers.

But she shakes her head. "No. I'll get one for myself."

She picks a thinner volume and sits beside him on the reading bench. It's lower than the couch, narrow enough that their elbows nearly brush as they turn the pages. Neither of them says a word about it.

Time burns away but not the candles. They are enchanted, you see. No way to tell how long they've been sitting there like that without the dripping wax to mark the hours.

Then, slowly, inevitably, her head tips. Lands softly on his shoulder.

He doesn't breathe for a moment. Then he exhales. A rare smile plays at the edge of his lips.

His fingers find the red thread braided into her hair—the severed string of fate she wears like armour. He rolls it softly between his fingers, wondering if she remembers where it once led. Then, he brings it close and kisses it lightly while looking at her.

Clarence waits for a moment, savouring the feel of her on his shoulder. Surely, they can't punish him for this little, wonderful accident. But he doesn't want to overindulge, doesn't want to test the eyes that are watching. Carefully, he lifts her into his arms and carries her to the velvet couch.

But as he lays her down, she stirs. Her fingers tug his sleeve.

"Don't leave," she whispers. "Let me have good dreams."

Clarence hesitates.

He shouldn't even be here, he knows this... it's not allowed. To stay like this. But he can't say no. Not this time, because he wants it. He has not seen her for days and he's already losing his mind. He tries to convince himself that this is not his fault, she asked.

So, he sits and offers her something better than Matthew's bed. He lets her head rest on his lap.

She's warm, soft and almost temptingly human as she lays asleep on him. Her breath is steady. Her cheek pressed against his thigh, lashes like shadows on her skin, lips slightly parted. And that damn uniform—Hell's own invitation.

Clarence said nothing when she showed up earlier wearing it like a walking heresy. He tried to ignore it, but now he feels like a fool thinking he could resist it.

His hand has been in her hair this whole time, brushing gently, reverently. It was meant to comfort her. It was meant to keep him tethered to something good.

But something inside him starts to slip.

Slowly, as if some higher force has let go of the reins, his hand drifts. Down the slope of her temple. Tracing the curve of her cheekbone. Then along the soft line of her jaw. Every inch a whisper. His fingers pause at the hollow of her throat, feeling the flutter of her pulse like a butterfly trapped under skin.

Still asleep, he tells himself.

His fingers trail lower. He watches the rise and fall of her chest under her jacket, watches the way her body reacts even in stillness. He slides his hand gently beneath, just to feel the warmth of her waist. Nothing overt. Nothing that would damn a man.

But then her leg shifts. Just a twitch. And that skirt hikes higher. Enough to see.

He looks.

Her skin glows warm in the candlelight—lit by her own lazy magic—and he can feel the heat of her body seeping through his gloves, through the very fabric of his resolve. Her skirt has a fold in it, a wrinkle just begging to be smoothed. Her lashes flutter once, like even in sleep she is teasing him.

He wants to look away. He doesn't.

Instead, he prays.

Fervently and desperately, in Latin.

Deliver me from temptation, for it wears her name. Let me be strong. Let me not reach.

She shifts.

Clarence calls the Almighty.

One leg stretches, just slightly. Her thigh brushes against his wrist. The most innocent movement in the world, and yet it thunders through him like a divine test. She murmurs something in her sleep—a whisper of breath that almost sounded like his name—and he swears white lights dance in front of his eyes.

Clarence bit down on the inside of his cheek.

She trusted him. That's what made this cruel. She trusted him enough to sleep like this. To fall unconscious with her head in his lap and her pulse under his hands and with nothing but his bleeding restraint between them.

It's too much, he can't move.

And his heart, damn traitorous exhausted thing, is screaming.

Touch her. Just once. She won't even know. Run your fingers across her knee, the inside of her thigh, up her waist. She's right here. And she's warm. And she's yours—if only for this moment.

No.

He can't.

He mustn't.

And then—

A soft sigh escapes her lips. Clarence.

His name again. He is certain this time.

And he is doomed.

Clarence stares at the ceiling like it might save him. Like the heavens might tear open and drag him back into discipline.

He is half expecting the seraphim to bust in and take him out of this delicious misery, but none show up.

He runs a hand through his hair before stifling a groan.

Then, slowly he shrugs off his coat and drapes it over her exposed thighs. A shield. A surrender.

She moves slightly under the added weight, pressing closer, and he thinks for a second he might die from it if he isn't already dead. Truly. Just perish, right there a martyr at her altar.

Still, he stays and withdraws his hand.

Instead, he whispers a broken thing against her temple. Some words no one else would hear.

"Sleep well, my darling." A name he used to call her in a bygone age. I shall sin for you in my dreams.

And heaven—silent, unblinking heaven—watches. And doesn't stop him.

—

The air outside hits him like penance. Cold, sharp, and cleaner than he deserves.

Clarence shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets before remembering—it's not there. It's still draped over her thighs like a surrender flag.

He exhales, slow and ragged, like it might shake something loose from inside him.

His steps are too fast at first. Boots striking the cobblestones like he's trying to outrun the memory of her breath catching beneath his hands. Of the way her pulse had fluttered against his fingertips. Of that soft, innocent shift of her leg—the tiny, unknowing betrayal that nearly undid him.

Her sigh. Lips shaping his name like a sin she didn't even realize she was speaking.

Heavens.

He stops at the end of the street and presses both palms against the nearest brick wall like it can hold him up.

"Lead us not into temptation..."

The words are dry on his tongue. Dead and useless.

His forehead drops to the wall. He bites down hard enough on the inside of his cheek to taste copper. It grounds him. Barely.

Every part of him is burning. Not the clean fire of anger or adrenaline. No, this is lower. Dirtier. The kind of heat that coils in the gut and stays there. The kind that lingers in his bloodstream long after the moment's gone.

He shouldn't have stayed that long. Shouldn't have kissed her hair. Shouldn't have touched her like that. Because now his hands will want more, and next time they won't stay at just her thigh.

Clarence drags his hands down his face. His gloves reek of woodsmoke and her—bergamot and something softer underneath. He clenches his fists like it'll erase the smell, like it'll erase her.

It doesn't.

By the time he reaches his penthouse, dawn's ghost is already starting to pull at the sky. The Veil's version of morning—a soft grey light that tastes like static and unfinished prayers.

Inside, he shrugs off what's left of his uniform jacket and tosses it carelessly over the back of a chair. Unbuttons his collar. Removes his tie. None of it helps.

There's a line between him and damnation, and tonight, he'd practically danced on it.

He stands and stares out at the city, throat tight and heart still hammering with phantom want. Then a glimmer, from one of the shelves, draws his attention.

It's coming from her ring. The sapphire she wore during a mission pretending to be his bride. Beside it, is the first gift she ever gave him. A stick of blue gum.

His fingers drift to the pieces of her. For a second he lets his eyes slip shut. And then a cold wave of realization hits making him wide awake.

It's pathetic, really.

That he even showed up at her doorstep tonight. After forcing distance between them like it would cure him of whatever disease she's become under his skin.

He would've endured another day, maybe more. Would've kept telling himself to wait it out. That she'd lose interest. That he'd lose whatever it is that makes him ache for her.

But the visit to the Chief's office earlier... that undid everything.

Clarence had sat in the Chief's office like a man walking willingly into a trap. He hadn't planned to say it out loud. The words just fell out of him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he'd asked in voice low and brittle. "That she looks like Marion."

The Chief didn't even flinch. Just offered him that knowing, measured look she always gave when she was about to say something that would cut deeper than anything he was prepared for.

"It wouldn't have mattered," she said, like it was a fact. Like she wasn't even trying to be cruel. "You would've taken her onto your team anyway."

Clarence remembers standing there, every muscle in his body tensing, like her words had exposed him far too easily.

Because it was true.

He could pretend to hate Clark's presence. Bark at her during missions, withhold her reports. Even assign her the worst jobs.

But at the end of the day... he wanted her here.

Not only because she was capable and survived what no one else could. But because he's a fool. The kind who's been unable to forget the only woman he ever loved... even after a thousand years.

And when the Chief told him the truth about why Clark became a reaper, that pushed him over the edge.

She was searching for something.

Her memories. Pieces of a life she couldn't remember but still chased after.

"I let her into the Archives," the Chief had said, almost like a warning.

Clarence recalls the sick drop in his stomach at that. Like the floor vanished from under him. Panic crept in, seizing him in a chokehold.

Because it meant she would remember him. Remember what they were to each other.

But the Chief quickly added, almost gently, that those memories were still sealed. The Veil kept them locked away for now.

Clarence was leaving then when she cautioned him, adding salt to the wound.

"She's remembering someone else, I want you to know." the Chief said.

A man.

Francis.

The only one who'd ever come close to taking her from him. The crown prince who, even in that life, Clarence had watched from the sidelines with gritted teeth and quiet dread.

"Unlike you, he's been reincarnated," the Chief told him. "They met again in one of her lifetimes."

And now... he exists, somewhere in the living realm. Walking the earth. It's only a matter of time before their paths cross again.

His throat burned with fury—of the thought. And tonight... this was his move.

Pathetic as it was.

Standing in her doorway, grasping at whatever fragile thread still existed between them.

Even if she didn't remember him or that life they had, he just needed her to know one thing—

That he's here. And she doesn't need Francis.

—

Clark wakes slowly; her senses tugged into the soft grey light that fills the bookshop. The first thing she notices isn't the dimness or the warmth of the velvet couch beneath her, but the weight on her shoulders.

His coat.

It smells like fresh blooms, tea leaves, and something faintly cold. Him.

She blinks, sits up slowly, fingers curling around the lapel. She's still half-dreaming, and for a wild second, she thinks he might still be there. But the room is quiet, and the air tastes like memory. Then—click. The soft sound of a door shutting gently, respectfully.

He's gone.

Clark exhales a quiet laugh. Of course he is. He would never wake her. Not if he could help it. She could not believe she slept, and this time there were no nightmares.

Still wrapped in his coat, she sits for a while longer on the couch, watching the light filter through the dusty windowpanes. It's peaceful here, like a place out of time. And for once, she lets herself be still and remember the warmth of a lap pillow and the way his fingers moved gently through her hair like he was afraid of breaking something sacred.

By the time she arrives at headquarters, the shroud of morning clings to her, but in a different way.

She's glowing.

There's a softness in her eyes that wasn't there the day before, something unspoken curled beneath her lashes like a secret. Even Anya pauses when she passes by, questioning the sudden sunshine she's bringing. Something she only sees when she wants to commit something illegal.

Clark hums and doesn't say a word as she approaches to the captain's office. He's in, always early. And unlike last night, his hair is up, fixed in his regular professional manner.

She walks in without knocking. The white flags have been raised last night, they now both acknowledge each other's existence.

With her report tucked under her arm, she leans casually over his desk, parading a pleated skirt. It looks the same as the one she wore last night, except this one is black and much shorter. Her voice low and sweet enough to be mistaken for a flirtation if one didn't know her. "You forgot your coat last night," she says, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Clarence doesn't look up right away, just finishes scribbling a note in the margin of a document. But that tiny vein near his forehead and the obvious lock in his jaw already tells her, he has seen her even if he is pretending not to.

"I didn't."

He finally lifts his gaze, lips tilting faintly. "You didn't want to give it back."

The accusation is entirely false—and they both know it. But the way he says it, calm and cocky and far too amused, makes her eyes narrow in mild irritation.

She straightens, making a show of turning on her heel. But before she can get far, Clarence reaches out and gently tugs her wrist, pulling her just slightly back into his orbit.

His voice drops, a promise cloaked in tease, "I'll come for it one of these days."

He releases her just as easily as he caught her and walks out of his own office like the damn coat wasn't even the real subject of conversation.

Clark watches him go, stunned.