You stepped into the pool. The water wrapped around your legs like warm silk.

And then his hand found yours beneath the surface.

He pulled you gently closer, until the water trembled between your bodies.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice cracking with admiration so raw it felt like a kiss. “Moonlight clings to you. As if the sky itself envies you.”

Your breath caught.

He cupped your jaw with wet fingers, his touch slow—deliberate—like an artist discovering what texture the world is made of.

“You are not from Dorne,” he murmured. “Yet everything about you was made for this heat.”

His lips brushed your cheek. Not quite a kiss. A promise.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “are you afraid of me?”

You answered honestly. “I don’t know.”

His smile deepened.

“Good,” he murmured against your skin. “Fear keeps the heart awake. And awake hearts love… dangerously.”

---

He kissed you then. Not fiercely. Not hungrily.

But slowly— so slowly it felt like an eclipse passing over your soul.

One hand curled at your waist under the water, the other tangled lightly in your hair, pulling you just close enough that your lips met with aching softness.

The kiss deepened by degrees—heat blooming, breaths mingling.

your hands sliding up his arms until you felt the tension, the restraint, the power he held back for your sake.

When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against yours.

“This,” he said, voice ragged, “is how a viper chooses its mate. Not with venom. With devotion.”

He drew you closer, lifting you effortlessly in the water until you were cradled against him, your legs brushing his waist, his arms strong around you.

His lips found your shoulder, your throat, the hollow beneath your ear—each touch slower than the last, reverent, almost agonized.

“Let me ruin the loneliness inside you,” he whispered. “Let me taste every piece the world forgot to love.”