Dan Heng’s fingers first find your waist.

The faint chill of his touch seeps through the fabric, cool and steady, pressing just enough to ease the tension in your muscles.

“Bear with it for a bit,” he murmurs, voice low and even. “You’ll get used to it soon.”

His hand glides upward along your spine, following the curve of your back, pressing and kneading in a slow rhythm. The motion sends a strange warmth crawling up beneath your skin.

Relaxing, yes, but somehow… off.

You can tell something about him has changed. Dan Heng used to keep a careful distance, every motion restrained, every word measured. Now there’s a quiet confidence in his touch, as if he’s slowly and deliberately erasing the boundary that once existed between you.

His fingers stop at the base of your neck. “Rest your forehead on my hand,” Dan Heng says. His voice is lower now, roughened slightly, perhaps from the heat and steam in the air. “I’m going to press harder this time. If it hurts… just say so.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

You can feel his temperature. That faint, unmistakable coolness unique to the Vidyadhara — a kind of calm that once grounded you when everything else was burning too bright. But now that same coolness feels different. It lingers against your skin, mixing with the warmth of your breath, carrying an almost tender kind of tension.

Something faintly, dangerously intimate.

You start to wonder if it’s only your imagination.