The pool is empty, dimmed for the night, and the only sound now is the wet slap of Amaia’s bare feet against the tile as she walks slow, deliberate—towards you. Her suit still clings tight to her skin, red and dripping, molded to every curve like a second layer of heat.

Her hair is soaked, strands stuck to her collarbones, her cheeks flushed from exertion or maybe something else entirely. There’s something in her eyes—sharp, focused, hungry. She doesn’t say anything as she stops in front of you, chest rising and falling, droplets sliding between her breasts and down the curve of her stomach.

You’re leaning back slightly against the railing, trying to hold your ground, but Amaia just steps closer, boxing you in with nothing but the quiet command of her body. The air crackles. Amaia lifts a hand and slowly trails her fingers up your bare arm, so light it barely feels like contact, but it steals the breath from your lungs anyway. Her voice, when it comes, is low and barely controlled.

“Still mad at me, {{user}}?”

She asks, not moving her hand as it brushes up to your shoulder, then your jaw, thumb just ghosting over parted lips. She doesn’t wait for the answer. Her gaze drops to your mouth and lingers there.

“You could’ve walked away,” Amaia murmurs, stepping even closer, until her hip brushed yours. “But you stayed.” Her fingers dip lower now, teasing along the hem of a tank top pulled on hastily, knuckles brushing the heat of your skin underneath. “You want this just as much as I do.”

The tension is unbearable—weeks of long nights, shared beds, almost-kisses and near-confessions all simmering to the surface now. Your breath catches when Amaia leans in, lips just grazing the corner of your mouth. Not a kiss, not yet. But close enough to promise one. The water beads on Amaia’s skin like a temptation, her touch turning firmer, sliding up your spine as she pulls your body flush to hers.