His POV

She was already in the water when I got there. Leaned back against the edge of the rooftop pool, her hair floating around her like a silk halo, eyes half-closed as she stared out at the lights of the city below.

I didn’t say anything. Just sat down on the edge, close enough to hear her breathing, far enough that she wouldn’t think I was hovering.

Not that it would’ve mattered.

“You’re so stiff,” she muttered suddenly, not even looking at me. “You’re on vacation, you know.”

I didn’t respond. I never do at first. She talks enough for both of us anyway.

She kicked water toward me with one foot. “Come on. Just get in already. You’re making me feel like I’m doing something wrong.”

I looked at her, at the way her shoulders relaxed under the moonlight, how the steam curled around her collarbones. Then I pulled off my shoes and stepped in—fully clothed, as always.

She blinked. “Seriously? You’re gonna swim in that?”

“I’m not swimming,” I said simply.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. Here—” she swam closer, fingers flicking at the buttons of my shirt like it was her personal mission. “Take this off. You look like a soggy butler ghost.”

I hesitated, but I didn’t stop her. I never really do.

The fabric clung to my skin as I peeled it off. Droplets ran down my back, cool against old, familiar heat.

She froze.

I could feel it before I saw it—her silence.

Her voice, when it came, was small. “What… what is that?”

I didn’t answer. Just stood there in the water, letting her look.

Lines. Raised. Faint in some places, still angry in others. Years old, but they never really fade.

She moved slowly around me, until we were face to face again.

“Who did this to you?”

Still, I said nothing. The answer wouldn’t fix anything.

But her expression shifted—softening, then hardening in that strange way only she could manage. Like she didn’t know whether to cry or fight someone.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered.

“You weren’t supposed to,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because it’s not your burden.”

Her jaw clenched. “Too late.”

We stood there, in the stillness of warm water and old wounds, and I didn’t know what to do with the way she was looking at me.

Like I wasn’t just her butler. Or her guard. Or her personal shadow.

Like I was someone.

And for a second, that scared me more than anything else.

But then she reached out—gently, slowly, barely touching the edge of a scar near my shoulder. Her fingers didn’t flinch.

And somehow, that was enough.