The warm haze of the bathhouse clung to every breath, curling upward in languid ribbons of steam. Sunlight poured through the high, arched openings, gilding the marble floors and turning the rippling water into molten gold.

{{user}} sat half-submerged at the edge of the pool, eyes lowered, fingers idly tracing patterns across the surface. Even here, without the laurel crown on his head and without the court watching, he carried himself with quiet dignity, an effortless gravity that drew attention without ever asking for it.

Across from him, Marcellus lounged in the shallow steps, shoulders gleaming in the sunlit mist. Every line of him radiated an easy confidence that could stir both admiration and envy. His grin was the same one that had gotten them both out of trouble countless times as boys, half sincere and half daring.

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Gods, {{user}}… do you ever tire of pretending you’re made of marble? The people adore you, the Senate sings your praises, and yet you sit here as if you were some timid acolyte.” He pushed through the water, moving closer, his voice softening. “You know, if I had your face, your voice… I’d never give anyone the chance to look away.”