He could still taste her on his lips when he realized that every clock in the shop had stopped.

20:59.

Pendulums hung mid-swing, and second hands stood poised like knives.

Elias’s breath came in ragged bursts. His shirt was half-untucked, and his knuckles clutched the counter until they turned white. He felt oddly separate from his own body, as if the wanting hadn’t been his idea at all.

Marisol slipped the antique watch into her purse, her eyes glinting with victory.

“What… what did you do to me?” His voice cracked on the last word.

“Exactly what I came for,” she said softly, stepping closer.

A sound echoed through the room.

Tick.

Too slow. Too loud.

The clocks hadn’t stopped by accident.

…Tock.

—

Tuesday, November 11

Rain streaked the shop windows as Elias unlocked the door and stepped inside. The familiar smell of brass polish and old wood greeted him like an old friend. He shrugged off his coat, switched on the lamps one by one, and began winding the clocks, listening as the first tentative ticks found each other and fell into rhythm.

The day unfolded in its usual, orderly way. A woman brought in a wall clock with a missing pendulum, and Elias promised to order the part. A man argued about quartz movements versus mechanical ones. The rain came and went, washing the street outside in gray watercolor strokes.

Elias spent most of it behind the counter, bent over tiny gears and coiled springs, polishing brass and setting escapements back into balance. The work calmed him, because the world made sense in here; each mechanism was a problem with a clear solution.

By evening, the foot traffic slowed, and the shop grew quieter. The ticking of a dozen clocks layered together like the murmur of a crowded café.

The doorbell chimed.

A woman stepped in from the drizzle, shaking water from her dark hair. Her coat was belted tight, and her expression was composed. She glanced around as if she’d been here before, though Elias couldn’t remember her.

She placed a small vintage watch on the counter. “It’s no longer working,” she said. “It always shows the same time.”

Elias turned the piece over in his hand, noting the hairline crack across its crystal. “I can fix it,” he said.

“Tonight?”

“It won’t take long.”

While he worked, the woman wandered the shop. Her fingers trailed lightly along the glass cases as though she could feel the clocks’ pulses through the wood. Elias kept his eyes on the mechanism beneath his tools, his breath fogging the loupe as he leaned in close.

When the repair was finished, she returned to the counter, fastening the strap again with a small, satisfied motion. For a moment, she lingered, studying Elias as though she expected… something.

He didn’t know what.

She left without another word.

—

Tuesday, November 11

By late afternoon, the shop ticked around Elias like a companionable crowd. He sat at the counter with the order form for a pendulum rod spread in front of him, the one a customer had asked about earlier.

His handwriting leaned forward in quick strokes, leaving faint ink on the side of his hand. Elias remembered his father cursing as he taught him the trade, and he rubbed the ink away on his apron.

Thumbing through pages of gears, dials, and polished brass parts, which he could name by feel alone, he leaned forward on the counter. His shoulders were broad, his muscles built slowly over years of winding mainsprings, hoisting tall-case clocks into place, and carrying crates of parts up the narrow back stairs. Clockmaking didn’t make a man broad overnight, but the work settled into you all the same.

When night began to fall and the shop grew quiet, a woman walked in.

Her coat was belted, rain streaking her shoulders, but beneath it Elias caught the small sheen of a red dress that seemed to cling in places before falling loose in others. She closed her umbrella and glanced around the shop as though checking that everything was exactly where she had left it. Her eyes settled on him.

She laid a vintage watch on the counter. “It stopped again,” she said, eyeing him with a smile.

Elias looked down at the watch, then back at her. “Again? Has this happened before?”

“Seems like it,” she replied lightly.

Staying close, the woman watched as Elias worked, leaning one elbow on the counter and observing his hands move over the tools. He caught the faint scent of her perfume, something floral with a darker note beneath, like petals crushed in rainwater.

“You work so carefully,” she murmured.

“It’s delicate,” Elias said, not looking up.

When he finished, she reached for the watch. Her fingers brushed against his as she took it back. The touch lingered, light but certain.

“See you soon,” she said with a faint smile.

Then she left, the bell chiming softly behind her.

—

Tuesday, November 11

The day moved quickly, each repair and order sliding into the next like the teeth of a well-oiled gear. Elias worked with a strange, easy rhythm; his hands were steady, his mind clear. There was a lift in him today, a spring he couldn’t explain but felt grateful for all the same.

When the shop grew quiet that evening, he caught himself glancing at the door, waiting for another customer to walk in. He realized it was something he looked forward to.

The bell rang.

A woman entered, closing the door to the rain outside. A red silk dress beneath her coat caught the lamplight as she crossed the floor. Elias found himself watching her with curiosity, her lips curled in a knowing smile.

“My watch stopped working,” she said. “And I figured you know about antiques.”

Elias took it from her, clearing his throat. “Let me see what’s wrong.”

Before he could retreat to his tools, the woman drifted along the shelves, fingertips grazing the polished wood frames. “They’re beautiful. What can you tell me about this one?” she asked, pausing by a wall clock with a gilded dial.

He hesitated, then followed her.

She stood close as he explained the clock’s movement, close enough that he caught the warmth of her sleeve brushing his when she leaned in to see the pendulum swing. Her eyes stayed on him as he spoke, not the clock.

“Makes you wonder,” she said softly when he finished.

“Wonder what?”

“How long some things keep going before someone finally winds them again.” Her smile carried an edge, like she wasn’t only talking about the clock.

Before he could answer, she nodded toward another piece near the back of the shop. “And that one?”

She didn’t wait for him this time. Her fingers found his hand to tug him along behind her. The touch was light, playful, but Elias felt it all the way up his arm, heat tightening under his skin as she led him through his own shop like she owned the place.

Stopped beside the tall-case clock in the corner, she finally let go of his hand. “Tell me about this one,” she said.

Elias rested his palm on the smooth oak case, his voice even as he explained the weights, the pendulum, the careful balance that kept time steady.

But she leaned closer than before, her shoulder brushing his sleeve as though to hear him better, the faint warmth of her body carrying through the fabric.

“I like hearing you talk about these things,” she said softly when he finished. “You make it sound… important.”

Her words landed harder than they should have. Customers did not linger like this. They did not stand close enough for him to notice the scent of perfume or to lead him across the shop with a hand on his own.

But she did.

“I’m Marisol.”

“Elias.” He felt aware of the slim fingers resting beside her waist and felt an urge to touch them again. “Should I go back to…” Elias blushed and pointed toward the watch awaiting its repair.

“Sure,” Marisol said, her voice faintly amused, as if the visit to the clockmaker’s shop was the highlight of her day.

Elias returned to the workbench, hands steady though his chest felt strangely tight. He tried to focus on the tiny screws, the worn gears, the faint scratch of metal against metal, but her presence lingered like a second heartbeat in the room.

“You never look up,” she murmured.

“I’m trying to fix your watch,” he said, though it came out hoarse.

“Maybe I don’t want you to finish,” Marisol said softly, almost daring him.

Elias’s hands stilled. He looked up then and met her eyes.

She was closer than he thought, close enough that he could see the faint sheen of rain still caught in her hair, close enough that the edge of her coat brushed his side when she leaned in just slightly, fingertips grazing the counter beside his own.

Neither of them spoke.

It felt like the air itself tilted before he moved — or maybe she moved first; he couldn’t tell — but then her mouth was on his, sudden and certain, the kiss stealing his breath like he’d been holding it for hours.

Elias made a sound low in his throat, hands finding her waist before he realized he’d even moved them, heat rushing through him so fast it left him dizzy. Her lips crashed against his, hot and insistent, her tongue sliding against his with a quick, teasing stroke that made his breath catch and his grip on her tighten. His want for her was sharp and sudden, like he’d been wound too tight and she had finally let him go.

When Marisol pulled away, her smile flickered, slow and deliberate. “Let’s do this again,” she said hazily.

Then she left him standing there, his heart racing in the quiet shop.

—

Tuesday, November 11

The day dragged and flew all at once. Elias barely tasted his lunch. He dropped a mainspring twice, cursed under his breath, and wound the same clock three times before realizing it was already ticking.

By evening, the quiet pressed in on him. He caught himself glancing at the door more than once without knowing why.

Then the bell rang.

Marisol stepped inside, rain catching in her dark hair before sliding off onto the floor. She slipped off her coat and shook the water free. Beneath it, the red silk dress clung in places before falling loose, the strap slipping slightly on one shoulder. Lamplight slid over her bare skin as she walked toward him.

“This stopped on me,” she said softly, slipping the vintage watch from her wrist and setting it in his hands. Her skin brushed his briefly, warm and soft, leaving a faint tingle as he turned the case over.

“I can take a look,” Elias said, trying to force his eyes on the watch instead of the woman.

Marisol leaned on the counter, her weight shifting casually, her eyes never leaving his. “You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?”

Elias nodded as he fumbled with the worn gears beneath his fingers. “My father ran the shop before me. I started helping when I was a kid, sweeping floors, polishing cases, anything to be near the work.”

She smiled faintly and traced the counter’s edge with one finger. “I remember. I used to come in sometimes. A long time ago. You probably never noticed. My name is Marisol.”

He glanced at her curiously. “I’m Elias. And no… I guess I didn’t.”

“I was quiet back then,” she said, almost teasing. “Watched more than I spoke. Once, I came in and you were in the back with some girl.”

Elias froze for half a second, his eyes flicking up to hers.

Marisol’s smile curved slowly, faintly, as though she was enjoying the memory. “You didn’t see me. The door was half open. She was on the workbench, skirt hiked up, your hands all over her while the clocks kept ticking like nothing else in the world was happening.”

Heat crawled up the back of Elias’s neck. He fumbled the tiny gear between his fingers and became suddenly too aware of the quiet between them.

“I… didn’t know anyone was—”

“You didn’t,” Marisol cut him off, her voice smooth and almost amused. She leaned on the counter a little closer, her eyes steady on his. “You were already fucking her when you asked her name. Like you couldn’t wait another second.”

Elias opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The image she painted, him on the workbench with that stranger, lodged itself in his chest like a hot iron. He should have felt ashamed. Instead, his pulse slammed harder.

Marisol leaned closer, her voice low and smooth. “Is that what you want, Elias?” she murmured. “To take without question?”

His grip tightened on the edge of the counter. “I—”

She didn’t let him finish. Her hand slid over his, warm and certain, before guiding it underneath her dress. He let her. Even through the thin silk, he could feel her heat.

“Do you want this?” she whispered, her breath brushing his ear.

Elias froze. He should have pulled back. He should have asked how she knew him, how she knew that memory. None of this made sense: a stranger walking into his shop, speaking like she had been here a hundred times before, his past laid bare with a few casual words.

But his hand was still where she pressed it, and his body betrayed him. Heat surged low in his gut, sharp and undeniable, drowning out every rational thought one by one until there was nothing left but the hammering in his chest.

He wanted her. Badly. Too badly.

“Elias,” she murmured, soft as a secret.

He could no longer resist.

Elias grabbed her waist, yanking her across the counter in one rough motion. Papers scattered. Tools clattered to the floor. Elias let out a low moan before pressing his lips hard on hers.

Marisol kissed him back like she had been waiting years for this moment. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down, her hips pressing forward until the edge of the counter bit into the back of her thighs.

Elias’s hands found her breasts, gripping harder when she let a sharp gasp leave her mouth. He pushed the silk of her dress up higher, needing her closer, needing nothing between them.

Marisol broke the kiss long enough to whisper against his jaw, “I need this moment.” Her voice was husky, breathless in a way that snapped the last thread of his reasoning.

Elias lifted her onto the counter, allowing Marisol to wrap her legs around his waist, pulling him in until there was no space left. Their heavy breaths drowned out the sound of clocks ticking.

She caught his hand and guided it back to her, showing him exactly what she wanted. Her eyes locked on his without relent. Her breath hitched when his fingers finally circled her, pushed inside her warmth, her back arching as she gripped the counter for balance.

The sound of her moans hit him like a match to dry tinder.

Elias moved faster, his breath breaking unevenly against her neck as her legs tightened around him. Her nails dragged across his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt, sharp enough to sting.

“Elias,” she gasped, head falling back as his fingers worked inside her, heat building quick and hard until she was panting against his ear.

He kissed the line of her throat, rougher than he meant to, tasting sweat and rain on her skin. Fumbling with his belt, Elias tugged it open one-handed while his other stayed exactly where she wanted it. His body felt tight, wound up like the mainsprings he spent his life repairing, ready to snap.

She helped shove his clothes out of the way, her hands trembling now but certain, pulling him toward her until he stood flush against the counter.

Then she reached between them, guiding him into her with one smooth, unhesitating motion.

Elias swore under his breath. The heat made his head drop to her shoulder as he drove forward, hard enough to make the counter creak under them.

Marisol clung on, one arm around his neck, the other braced on the counter as he found a rhythm, taking him in completely.

The sounds they made tangled together with the faint tick of the clocks, her moans spilling into his mouth when he kissed her again, his hands gripping her thighs like he couldn’t get close enough.

Her dress hung loosely around her waist, every sharp thrust dragging another startled cry from her throat.

The shop disappeared around them as though nothing outside that counter existed.

Her moans grew louder, sharper, spilling into the thick air between them. He felt her tighten around him, felt the shudder that ran through her body as she broke apart in his arms, hips jerking, head falling back with a hoarse, wordless cry.

The pulse of it dragged him over with her. Elias slammed forward one last time, groaning low into her shoulder as release tore through him, his whole body bowing tight before collapsing against hers.

And then—

The clocks stopped.

20:59.

Pendulums frozen. Second hands stiff.

The shop was silent.

Elias lifted his head, blinking hard, chest heaving. Only his own pulse pounding in his ears.

Marisol smoothed the strap of her dress back into place, calm now, like the storm had never touched her at all. Her eyes gleamed faintly in the lamplight as she reached for the antique watch on the counter.

She slipped it into her purse.

As the haze cleared, Elias felt the weight of what had just happened, like he had been moved through it rather than choosing it, like his body had belonged to someone else. He found her gaze.

“What… what did you do to me?” His voice cracked on the last word.

“Exactly what I came for,” she said softly.

A loud, slow beat pulsed through the room.

Elias swallowed. “What happens tomorrow?”

Marisol paused at the door, one hand on the frame. She glanced back over her shoulder, a faint smile playing at her lips. For the first time, Elias saw her eyes clearly, dark, flat and empty.

“Who says there is one?”