Caught completely off guard, Frederick hit the sofa hard, the back of his head sinking into the plush cushions. He stared up at Clara, taking in her flushed, frantic expression as she loomed over him.
Strands of her hair cascaded down, brushing against his cheeks and carrying her signature floral scent—the exact same intoxicating fragrance he remembered from that night.
He ruthlessly crushed the sudden surge of emotion pooling in his eyes. When he blinked, his gaze was flat and impenetrable once more. "Get off me."
Clara fiercely tightened her grip on his collar. Her voice shook violently, and thick tears pooled in her eyes, though she stubbornly refused to let them fall. "I'm not moving. Tell me right now. Are you Peak? You took care of me abroad for years but never let me see your face. You cooked for me, looked after me, and sat by my bed all night when I was burning up with a fever. Was that you? Say something!"
Frederick slowly brought his hand up. At this point, there was no sense in denying it any longer.
He wrapped his fingers around hers. His palm was warm and calloused, his touch incredibly gentle, as if he were afraid of shattering something impossibly fragile.
Holding her hand delicately, his thumb subconsciously brushed against the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. His voice, a low, gravelly rasp, finally broke the heavy silence. "It was me."
Hearing his confirmation, Clara went completely rigid, staring at him in total disbelief. "So... running into me at the bar wasn't an accident."
Frederick shifted, pulling them both up into a seated position. Clara remained frozen, still straddling his lap.
Frederick let out a heavy sigh, his intense gaze locking onto hers. "No, it wasn't an accident. I knew you were there."
Clara lashed out again, her palm cracking sharply across his cheek. The force of the blow snapped Frederick's head to the side, and a tiny streak of blood pooled at the corner of his mouth.

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