"Ah..."
Cyril rubbed his head and pushed himself upright in bed. The soreness in his body and the fragmented images flashing through his mind gradually brought him to his senses.
Did I get drunk and sleep here last night?
As he pondered this, a slender, pale hand wrapped around his waist and pulled him back under the covers. Then a warm, soft, supple body wrapped itself around him. Cyril suddenly went rigid as images flashed through his mind one after another:
He saw himself taking Clarice home in his arms, the two of them falling onto the bed together, their clothes coming off one piece at a time...
He could even clearly recall the slight shiver when his hand had caressed her body, the warmth beneath his fingertips, and the silky texture. "I..."
Before he could finish speaking, another mouth sealed his lips. Then his body proved more honest than his mind: he held her close and kissed her back.
Sunlight streamed into the room and fell across Cyril's face, driving away the last traces of sleep.
Clarice, her long, lustrous black hair falling loosely around her shoulders, stood by the window, admiring the rare sunny weather in Backlund.
Noticing Cyril's gaze, she turned around and chuckled.
"You did pretty well last night, little guy. You're a lot braver than you were the last time we met."
"Love should be bold and passionate when you're young. If you want to do something, just do it."
Is "do it" in your mouth a verb?
He grumbled inwardly, then asked curiously,
"Aren't you worried about being discovered by that Mystical Item belonging to the Church of Steam?"
Clarice smiled confidently. "'The Primordial' protects me. As long as I don't do anything that draws attention, neither the Church of Steam nor the Churches