Frieda blinked awake in the middle of the night, her breath catching the moment she saw him—Orion's face was right in front of hers. His lips, barely an inch away. Her arms were wrapped around him tightly, her leg draped over his waist, bodies locked together under the sheets.
Her face burned.
She froze for a second, staring at his lips, then leaned in and gave them the softest kiss—just a brush. No reaction. His breathing stayed steady. Still asleep.
That gave her courage.
Without thinking, she kissed him again, deeper this time. Her heart was slamming in her chest, her hands trembling as she held onto him tighter. She buried her face in the kiss, chasing the warmth of his mouth, the safety of his body, the closeness she'd been starving for.
And then—she parted his lips.
Her tongue slid in, barely touching his. She paused there, overwhelmed, feeling the heat build in her stomach, then started moving—slow, unsure at first, then with more intent. She kissed him like she meant it, like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
Her hand slipped up his back, gripping him harder. Her leg pulled him in closer. She let out a shaky breath into his mouth, everything in her aching to stay right here.
And then—he moved.
His lips twitched. His eyes fluttered half-open.
Frieda froze.
He looked like he was still asleep, dazed, caught in the space between dreams and waking. But the kiss had gotten through to him. Something in him was reacting.
Panic hit her. But so did hunger.
She couldn't let the moment slip away. She clung to him tighter and kissed him again—hard. Desperate. Mouth open, forcing the kiss, taking control. Her lips crashed into his like she was trying to steal the breath from his lungs. And he didn't fight it.
He didn't do anything.
He just let her keep going—barely aware, barely awake, helpless in her arms.
And she kept going. Kept kissing. Kept holding. Kept needing.
Eventually, the heat dulled into quiet. Their breathing slowed. Their bodies stayed tangled together, and slowly, sleep dragged them both back under—lips still touching, hearts still racing, the night wrapping around them like a secret.
The Next Morning
Frieda woke first.
The soft golden light of morning trickled through the curtains, warm against her skin—but it felt wrong. Wrong in her bones. She opened her eyes slowly, and there he was—Orion, still asleep. His face inches away. Her arms still around him. The aftermath of what she'd done wrapped around them like a noose.
And then it all came back.
Last night.
The kisses.
Her desperation.
His half-conscious, unresisting body.
A sick weight dropped in her stomach like a stone into deep water.
Oh gods. What did I do?
Her breath caught. Her hands trembled. She untangled from him with sudden violence, flinching like she'd been burned. Her body screamed to stay close, but her mind recoiled in horror.
She didn't know what to think—only that she had to get out.
She slipped from the room in silence, her heartbeat thundering in her ears, and fled to the bathroom. The door shut behind her with a soft click that felt like a gunshot.
"Calm down… calm down…" she whispered, gripping the sink, knuckles bone-white.
She looked up.
Her reflection stared back—pale, wide-eyed, mouth trembling. A stranger. A thief.
"Maybe he didn't notice," she rasped, voice cracking. But she already knew. The guilt in her lungs wouldn't let her breathe. It was pressing in from all sides—cold, ugly, and deserved.
She needed to run.
Throwing on whatever clothes she could find, she slipped out of the house and made her way to the back alley behind the Knights' Headquarters—a forgotten little place where off-duty knights went to smoke and gossip, and no one really paid attention to anyone else.
I hate this place, she thought bitterly. But at least no one will look for me here.
She sat on the edge of a worn bench, curling her knees up, arms hugging herself like armor. Her heart was still pounding. Guilt clung to her like a second skin, sticky and suffocating.
A few minutes passed before two knights wandered into the alley and settled on a bench nearby. They didn't notice her—her casual home clothes made her look like just another tired civilian trying to exist. They lit cigarettes and started talking quietly about nothing important.
Frieda watched the smoke drift through the air, curling and fading like her thoughts. She hated the smell. Always had. But right now... it grounded her. It was disgusting, real, normal—something to cling to when her world felt like it was cracking.
"I should go back," Frieda whispered to herself.
She stood from the bench, straightened her clothes, and made her way back to her quarters, where Orion still lay asleep. The sight of him—peaceful, unaware—sent another sharp wave of guilt crashing through her chest.
Her steps slowed at the doorway. She swallowed hard, exhaled quietly, and slipped inside.
Just act normal.
Frieda moved on autopilot.
She turned on the stove, every motion mechanical—reach, slice, stir—but her hands shook. The blade slipped. She barely missed cutting herself.
Her mind screamed. What are you doing? You don't get to play house. Not after last night.
But she kept going.
She made honey-roasted fowl. His favorite. Why? Maybe it was apology. Maybe it was cowardice. The smell filled the room with warmth she didn't deserve. The sweetness of honey and flowers curled around her like a lie.
She plated the meal with trembling care, covered it to keep it warm, then reached for paper.
Her hand hovered over it.
What can I even say?
"I'm sorry"?
"I took something that wasn't mine"?
"I kissed you when you couldn't stop me"?
She stared down at the blank note until her vision blurred.
Finally, she wrote:
"I've gone out."
The handwriting was rushed. Uneven. Like she couldn't bear to touch the page longer than a second.
She stared at it for a long time before whispering, "Coward."
Then she grabbed her gear and stepped outside.
---
A while later, Orion stirred.
The sunlight crept in through the curtains, soft and bright. He sat up slowly, rubbing his temple. His head felt foggy. Not painful, just... disjointed, like he'd been dreaming too close to the surface of sleep.
"What... happened?" he muttered.
The scent of something warm caught his attention. He turned to the small table—there, a plate of food and a folded note.
He picked it up.
"I've gone out."
No signature. No explanation.
He frowned. Looked around. The walls, the sparse furniture... a photo of the Knights. Frieda was in the center, straight-backed and scowling. Definitely her place.
He sat back on the edge of the bed, staring at the note.
A vague unease sat in his chest. Like something was missing. Or taken.
Bits of memory clung to the edges of his mind—lips, warmth, someone's arms. A voice.
A kiss?
His hand drifted to his mouth.
It didn't feel like nothing. But it didn't feel like memory, either.
He exhaled slowly and turned toward the window. Outside, Mondstadt buzzed like it always did—birds in the air, repairs on the streets, people moving on with their lives.
But he didn't feel like himself. Not entirely.
---
Meanwhile…
Frieda stood at the training grounds, arms crossed, face unreadable as the recruits fumbled through formation drills.
Every barked command from the drill sergeant melted into white noise. Her thoughts dragged her back to the warmth of Orion's breath against her lips, to the silence after the kiss, to the empty note and untouched food.
She hadn't dared to write more.
How could she?
"I kissed you while you were asleep"?
"I crossed a line you didn't even know was there"?
Her stomach turned.
"You alright, Captain?" Sir Kaelen's voice broke in beside her.
She blinked. "What?"
"You're staring at the ground like it owes you money."
She tried to smile. It cracked halfway through. "Didn't sleep well."
Kaelen raised a brow but didn't press. "Recruits are about to start saluting their own shadows. Want me to take over?"
"Please."
She handed him the clipboard and turned away—too fast, too stiff.
She didn't go to the mess hall. Didn't go to her quarters. Instead, she walked the alleys in silence, boots echoing against stone.
He'll wake up. He'll read the note.
He'll remember.
Or he won't.
Maybe that's worse.
Her chest tightened. She didn't know what scared her more: him forgetting, or him looking at her with disgust when he remembered.