Steam curled around him like silk, soft and insistent, blurring the tiled chamber into something half-remembered and dream-heavy. It clung to his skin, to the air, to the moment—turning everything slow.

His fingers moved with purpose, coaxing lavender soap into a lather. Each stroke deliberate, almost reverent. The scent rose—floral, clean, and just a little decadent. The kind of luxury that pretended to be simple, but wasn’t. Not really.

The bar itself felt like it belonged somewhere curated. A porcelain dish. A marble counter. A place where even the quiet was designed.

He glanced over his shoulder.

No protest. No tension. Just a raised brow and the faintest curve of a smile—amused, maybe, at the theft in progress. That was permission enough.

His grin came without effort. Crooked. Self-satisfied. He didn’t offer apology. He didn’t need to.

“Not exactly poison, but softness has its own kind of danger.”

And he liked danger. Especially when it smelled like lavender.