Chapter 8: Burning Through

A chime broke the evening’s hush, its echo threading through the shelves. He worked near the window, mending a spring, its coils glinting in the lantern’s glow. Shadows cracked across the boards—long and jagged in the dusk. The shop held stillness, clocks ticking in uneven rhythm. Some steady. Some lost.

His shirt hung loose at the collar, the heat of the day lingering into night. A vest lay folded on a nearby chair, its patches dark against the wood, worn soft from mornings past when the sun filled the panes.

Across the room, Lira sat at the bench. The antique clock lay open before her, its gears exposed like bone. Her pencil traced the casing’s edge with slow precision. Her blouse loosened at the throat, and her dress bore charcoal streaks. She sat cross-legged, hem creased from hours of work. A strand of hair caught the breeze from the cracked window. Her scarf rested beside the sketch, colors muted in the dim.

The air wore time—dust, oil, and quiet. The lantern’s warmth pressed against the room’s cooling breath.

He glanced her way. The key rested between them—its secret still alive in his memory. Yesterday’s snap hummed sharp in his mind like the chime just now.

“Spring’s bent,” he said.

His voice low, the metal cool beneath his fingers.

She looked up. Pencil stilled.

Then rose.

Boots scuffed across the boards. Her blouse shifted, collar slipping as she crossed to him.

“A day, then,” she said.

Her tone steady, but a spark lit her eyes. She reached for the key, fingers brushing the table’s edge.

“Hours held,” he murmured. Curiosity roughened his voice as he set the pliers down with a soft clink. “You sure it won’t crack?”

She smirked faintly. The lantern caught her sleeve.

“It’s begging for it,” she said.

Eagerness curled through her words. Her chest pulsed warm.

He frowned. Concern crept beneath his calm.

“Smoke’s still in the gears,” he said.

She laughed. A soft sound, shadowed by the smudge on her dress.

“Then we’ll see it burn.”

He gave a single nod, the motion tight.

She fit the key into place.

It clicked firm.

She twisted it four times.

The air groaned. Sharp. High.

Time leapt.

A day unwound.

The shop dimmed—her pencil untouched on the bench, his spring unmended on the table. The lantern sat dark on its shelf. Evening softened beyond the panes.

She moved quickly this time. Boots lighter on the boards. Her blouse loose, her body warm.

Her hand found his neck.

Fingers threaded into his hair as she leaned in.

Her lips met his throat—slow, warm, sure. Breath sank into him, heat against the night’s chill.

He turned, hands finding her arms.

He pulled her close.

Their mouths met, the taste deep—sharp as wine, salt and want.

She leaned in further. Her blouse gave beneath his grip. Her heartbeat thudded steady through the cloth. His hands slid to her waist.

Their hips aligned.

The world receded.

The clocks hummed somewhere behind the moment.

She deepened the kiss, fingers tight in his hair. Her breath caught as she drew him in.

Then—still holding him—she turned the key again.

Four clicks.

A groan rose. The gears hissed.