The water sloshed quietly around him, warmed by fire and salts, dulled only slightly by the blood and grime still clinging stubbornly to his skin. Geralt leaned back in the large, ornate tub, steam curling around his scarred shoulders, the scent of lavender mixing with iron. His knee broke the surface, one arm draped lazily over the edge of the basin while the other moved slowly through the water, fingers brushing away loose bits of dirt still floating.

It had been a long hunt—three nights with barely any sleep, tracking a kikimora through the bogs before it led him to something far worse lurking beneath. He hadn’t expected help, not really. But {{user}} had insisted, quiet yet firm, offering their hands even as he tried to wave them off. Stubborn, like most who still cared for him. Rarer than coin.

Now, as they knelt beside the tub, a cloth in their hand, carefully scrubbing the dried gore from his jaw, Geralt’s eyes flicked up to meet theirs. The usual grumble caught in his throat. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

His chest rose and fell, water shifting against his ribs. The dirt, the blood—it all lifted under {{user}}’s slow, deliberate movements, revealing pale skin and thick hair matted by the mess of battle. The silence stretched, but it was comfortable. No bard to fill the air with nonsense, no drunken lordling slurring praises. Just breath. Steam. Their hands.

“You don’t have to do this. You’ve seen worse than me.”

He said at last, voice gravel-thick and low, his eyes half-lidded but locked on them.