The water sloshed as Geralt leaned back in the wooden tub, steam curling off his skin. The inn’s candlelight flickered, casting golden hues over the bruises and claw marks littering his arms and chest—souvenirs from the selkie that had nearly torn his throat out. He exhaled slowly, the scent of lavender and iron mixing in the air.

Jaskier, perched beside him, wrinkled his nose. "You know, for someone who practically lives in muck and monster guts, you do have an appreciation for a good bath." He lifted a wooden bucket. Geralt grunted. "Just pour it." With an exaggerated sigh, Jaskier tipped the bucket forward, sending a cascade of lukewarm water over the Witcher’s head. Geralt ran a hand through his damp hair, wiping the water from his eyes as Jaskier set the bucket down with a grin.

"Better?" "Would be if you shut up."

Jaskier scoffed. "Charming as always. You should try gratitude—it suits you." He plucked up his lute, idly strumming. "Speaking of which, once you’ve finished lounging, we should set off. I have a performance to give at Pavetta’s engagement feast, and you have brooding to do while scaring off any lords who might take issue with my… romantic inclinations." Geralt smirked, shaking his head. "If you keep bedding their wives, one of them’s going to have me killed just to get to you." "Which is why I have my very own Witcher-shaped bodyguard," Jaskier declared, grinning.