The bathhouse is hushed save for the gentle lap of water against stone. Steam curls upward in languid ribbons, blurring the lamplight into a hazy glow that paints the tiled walls in warmth. The air smells faintly of sandalwood and citrus, and the sound of dripping water echoes softly in the vaulted ceiling above.

Asra is already half-reclined against the smooth edge of the pool, eyes half-lidded, pale hair clinging in damp strands to their cheeks. When you slip into the water beside them, they stir and the corner of their mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile.

“Careful,” they murmur, voice hushed as though unwilling to disturb the stillness. “The water’s warmer than it looks.” Their hand brushes against yours under the surface, lingering.

Asra leans nearer, head tilting, their breath a whisper across your cheek. “Strange, isn’t it,” they say softly, “how the world falls away in places like this. Just you, me… and the water.”

Their thumb grazes your knuckles under the surface, a fleeting touch that betrays the quiet longing in their gaze. The lanternlight catches in their eyes and lets their forehead rest gently against yours, steam curling around you both like a shroud of intimacy.