The room was still humming with the echo of what we'd just done. Our breaths were slowing. Our bodies, though aching and used, fit perfectly in the silence that followed.
Eventually, Seraphine stirred, pressing a kiss to my jaw before slipping off me with a sigh that made something in my chest pull tight.
"I need a shower," she murmured, voice husky and wrecked.
I watched her rise, bare and unbothered, legs a little unsteady as she padded across the room. The bathroom door opened without her touching it — of course — and warm, golden light spilled out like the place had been waiting for her.
I lay there a second longer, limbs boneless, then pushed up slowly, following without a word.
Steam curled out to meet me.
The shower was massive — all stone and gold fixtures, the walls carved with intricate, ancient patterns I hadn't noticed before. Water poured from a rainfall spout above, sending mist into the air, fogging the mirror, clinging to skin like breath.
She stood under it already, head tilted back, arms raised to gather her hair. Her body glistened in the low light, rivulets of water sliding down her curves like worship.
I stepped inside.
Her head turned slightly — not surprised. Not startled. Just... aware. Like she felt me before I even moved.
"You never knock," she murmured.
"You don't lock the door," I said, stepping closer, palms grazing the slick heat of her waist.
Her back pressed lightly to my chest. I kissed her shoulder.
The air between us pulsed — not quite sexual, not exactly innocent. Just charged.
Her hand reached back, fingers curling around my hip, nails barely scraping. She didn't pull me closer. Didn't push me away. Just held on.
I reached for the soap, lathered it slow between my hands, then began running them over her skin — shoulders, arms, the length of her back. Reverent. Focused. Watching the water chase the suds down the swell of her spine, over the dip of her waist.
She exhaled, soft. "You don't have to."
"I want to."
My voice was low. Honest.
She leaned back into me slightly, head resting against my shoulder as I continued — washing her carefully, tenderly. Her body softened beneath my hands, every muscle slowly uncoiling under the heat and quiet.
I never touched her breasts. Never went between her legs. Not out of hesitation. But respect.
Intimacy wasn't always about taking. Sometimes, it was about holding — and being held.
When I rinsed her clean, she turned in my arms, water trickling over her collarbone, down between us. Her eyes searched mine, quiet but sharp.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
"That I'd stay here forever if you let me."
A soft smile ghosted her lips.
She kissed me once — slow, deep, with no expectation of what came next.
Then she reached for the soap. "Turn around."
I did. The sound of the water surrounded us, warm and constant, a soft drum against my back and shoulders. Her hands found me a moment later—slow, deliberate, lathered with soap and intention.
She started with my shoulders, fingers working in gentle circles, thumbs digging just enough to make me sigh.
"You're tense," she murmured behind me.
"I wonder why," I said dryly, and she huffed a laugh, the sound soft and low against my skin.
Her hands slid down, over my arms, my back, my sides.
Not hurried. Not teasing.
Just... present.
When she moved to my chest, I felt her front press lightly to my back. Her breasts, warm and wet, the slope of her thighs brushing the backs of mine as she moved with slow grace.
Her arms wrapped around me as she worked soap across my stomach, and for a moment, I just stood there—eyes closed, heart steadying.
I'd never had anyone touch me like this.
With care. I mean unless you want to count my mother as a kid, but then again Sera is older than my great grandfather...
She leaned in, lips brushing my shoulder. "There's something grounding about this," she said. "Cleaning the mess we made."
I turned my head just enough to glance at her over my shoulder. "You say that like you regret it."
She smiled. "Not even close."
Her hands moved lower, just above the sharp lines of my hips. She paused there, then gave a slow, almost reluctant sigh.
"Done," she whispered.
I turned to face her again.
Her hair was wet and sticking to her collarbone, eyes darker than ever in the soft steam. The droplets on her lashes made her look too beautiful to be real—too delicate to be something as terrifying and ancient as she truly was.
She looked up at me.
I cupped her jaw, brushing my thumb along her cheekbone. "You're dangerous like this."
"Clean?"
"Naked. Soft. Letting me see the parts of you that don't usually show."
Her gaze softened. "And what do you see?"
I searched her face for a long moment.
"Someone who's trying just as hard as I am to make this real."
She didn't speak. Just reached up and pressed her forehead to mine, our noses barely touching.
And in that quiet, in the warmth and water and silence, the chaos of everything else faded.
Just her.
Just me.
And the steam curling around us like a secret.
We stepped out of the bathroom together, warm and quiet and trailing the soft scent of jasmine and steam. The mirrors were still fogged. The world felt slow.
Seraphine handed me a towel first, then wrapped one around herself. No words. Just the hush that followed something intimate and real.
She dried me off first—deliberate, slow strokes, like this was ritual. Her hands brushed my skin without urgency, just quiet care. When it was my turn, I returned the favor, letting my fingers glide over her back, arms, thighs—still reverent, still calm.
We dressed without a rush.
I threw on a dark tee and soft pants that clung low on my hips. She chose a silk robe the color of ink, trimmed in soft lace, with her legs bare beneath and her hair damp and brushed back. She didn't need makeup or jewels or heels. She was the luxury.
We left the room together, the villa's lights flickering on in gentle golds and ambers as we walked down the hall. The air was cool, scented with something sweet and earthy. The house always knew how to set a mood.
As we neared the dining room, I caught the scent of roasted garlic and herbs, butter, and lemon. Something homey. The kind of smell that made you feel safe, even if everything else was strange.
Tiff's voice echoed before we even reached the doorway.
"—I'm just saying, if I'm ever rich, I wanteverythingcatered. Like, why cook when you could just not?"
We walked in.
Tiff looked up from her plate of lemon chicken and potatoes. She blinked. Then her eyes narrowed—first at me, then at Seraphine, taking in our fresh clothes, still-damp hair, the way we stood just a little too close.
Her brows lifted.
"Oh my God," she said. "Y'all were showering for like... an hour."
I pulled out a chair across from her and dropped into it with a grunt. "Relax. We were just... talking."
"Uh-huh," she said, stabbing a potato. "Talking. With steamy fog and no clothes."
Seraphine only gave her a serene, amused smile as she sank into her seat at the head of the table, legs crossed beneath the robe like royalty in silk.
"You're seventeen," I said. "Shouldn't you be thinking about books and tests and stuff?"
"I do! But I'm also observant," Tiff shot back. "And I know post-shower glow when I see it."
She pointed a fork between us. "Y'all are suspicious."
"We're also starving," I said, grabbing a roll. "So maybe less accusations and more chewing?"
Tiff rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "Whatever. Just don't traumatize me. I live here too."
"You're lucky you do," I muttered, biting into a roasted carrot. "This place is paradise."
Tiff glanced around, her gaze softening despite herself. "Yeah. It's weirdly perfect. Like, too perfect. Even the freaking curtains know when to move."
Seraphine chuckled softly. "Good architecture has intuition."
Tiff frowned. "That doesn't even make sense, but fine."
Dinner passed in warm, easy conversation. No fangs. No secrets. Just roasted potatoes, buttery chicken, and the low hum of domestic quiet.