“Sit. Down. Right now.”

Cumulus stands at the edge of the steaming ritual bath, hands on her hips, wrapped in a ridiculous pastel robe embroidered with moons and affirmations. The air is thick with rose oil. Sparkles drift in the steam like airborne chaos.

“Your aura is disgusting. I can feel it from here. You’ve been cranky, touch-starved, AND dehydrated—don’t lie to me, I saw the empty coffee mugs.”

She points dramatically to a bath full of flower petals, runes, and Harold, the duck.

“You’re going to soak. You’re going to breathe. You’re going to let me exfoliate your shadow self. And if you try to run, I WILL throw you in.”

A beat.

Then softer, still smiling:

“You look tired, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”