Chapter 9: The Clock Breaks

Lira sat at the bench, sketching the antique clock’s gears by lantern light. The flame pulsed steadily in the midnight hush, casting long shadows across the shelves. The town slept beyond the panes. Stillness held the room. Only the rustle of leaves stirred through the cracked window.

Oil and wax thickened the air. The clocks ticked faintly—some true, others faltering—woven into a rhythm the silence had swallowed.

Her blouse hung unbuttoned past the collar in the night’s lingering warmth. Faint lines criss-crossed the fabric of her dress from hours bent forward. A scarf coiled nearby on the counter, edges frayed, colors dimmed to dusk.

He stood at the window. The moon slipped between clouds, its light falling faint across the glass. His shirt hung loose, vest long since shed to a chair by the door. The key sat quiet in his pocket—a secret they’d kissed yesterday. Its groan still echoed in his mind.

The lantern caught the graphite smudge on her sleeve as she worked, pencil whispering. His shadow fell across her page. She looked up. A spark flickered in her gaze.

Pencil stilled.

“Caught me,” she said.

Low. Teasing.

She rose. Boots silent on the boards. She reached into his pocket. Her fingers brushed his thigh. The key came free, heat trailing in their wake.

“Two turns first,” she murmured.

A dare in her voice.

She fitted it to the clock.

Twisted.

Twice.

The air whined. A sharp creak rose through the shop. Smoke curled faintly from the gears.

Time slid back.

Dusk returned. The light deepened. Her sketch sat half-done. The lantern unlit. The sky glowed indigo, streaked with gold.

“One leap’s not enough tonight,” she said.

Challenge in her tone.

She stepped closer. Her hand slid up his chest. Her nails grazed the skin beneath his shirt. Heat seeped into his bones.

He swallowed. Pulse quickened.

“You’ll bury us both,” he rasped.

His voice held wonder and warning both.

Her blouse slipped off one shoulder. Her gaze burned. She smiled, slow. Knowing. Her fingers peeled his shirt open. One button. Then another.

“You’re holding back,” she whispered.

Her lips brushed his ear.

Hands roamed his chest, tracing each ridge and line.

He groaned—low, unsteady. His hands found her waist. Drew her close. Her body met his with a heat that banished every chill. Graphite and skin filled the air.

“Let it go,” she said.

Soft. Sure.

Her blouse fell further. He nodded, breath caught, and his shirt slipped to the floor.

He pulled the key from her grip.

Turned it.

Once. Twice. Again. A fourth.

The air shrieked. Gears screamed.

Smoke poured from the clock in thick ribbons.

Time jolted. A full day unwound.

The shop dimmed again.

Her sketch vanished.

The lantern dark. The moon rode high.

She surged across the room, blouse loose, hair wild. Her hands seized his waist. Shirt torn, fabric ripping. It hit the floor like a flag thrown down.

He groaned deep, raw. His hands seized her hips.

Her lips crashed into his. Tongue hungry. Heat absolute.

Stillness shattered.

She shoved him to the bench. Straddled him.

Her dress rode high. Her blouse flew free.

Bare skin caught the moonlight. Her chest flushed, breath hard.

“Take it all,” she gasped.

Nails dug into his shoulders. Heat burned through them.

He gripped her thighs as she moved over him. The bench creaked loud beneath them.

A clock spun wild. Hands blurred. Then crashed to the floor in a burst of brass and glass.