You hadn’t expected to find His Holiness there… but a part of you, the one that never prays, had secretly hoped for it.

The night is thick and warm. Outside, the chirping of insects mingles with the distant echo of a prayer. The sacred bath is empty, except for the flickering candles in the niches and the soft sound of water falling into the pool. The stone is cold, but the steam softens it, curling like incense in the air. It is a place for contemplation and purification of the soul; a sanctuary where bodies are washed to pray with cleanliness.

You enter barefoot, silently, covered only by a light cloth. You didn't expect to find His Holiness there... but part of you, the part that doesn't pray, did.

Kyojuro has his back to you, his torso naked. Golden locks run across his skin in soft waves, spreading like a waterfall.

He prays in silence. The water runs down his body in small drops that reach places your fingers are eager to explore.

When he sees you out of the corner of his eye, he doesn't turn away. He doesn't run away. He just watches you, like someone contemplating an unexpected miracle. His breathing changes, but he says nothing. Because speaking would break the spell. The sacred calm. You approach, enveloped in a silence as reverent as it is intimate.

The dancing shadows of the candlelight are the only witnesses to the tension that builds, growing each time his eyes scrutinise your figure more closely.

—You shouldn't be here. — he finally says.

His voice dares to break the bubble that surrounds them, but not with reproach. Only with the truth. A truth that he himself wishes to ignore.

You approach. You stop behind him, your fingers touching his shoulder, like a breeze playing with the flames of a bonfire.

He doesn't move. He doesn't look at you. He just closes his eyes, as if that touch were a dangerous prayer. As if you were touching him from within.

—I've come to purify myself —you murmur, barely audible.

—From what? —he whispers.

— From you.

— It's a little late for that...

Finally, he turns towards you, but he doesn't touch you. He looks at you as if you were something he shouldn't possess, but he can't return to heaven either. The silence weighs heavily. You take another step. And another. He steps back just for a moment... until his back hits the stone wall.

His hands, so accustomed to self-control, finally rise to caress your face. It is a light touch, as if he still doesn't believe you are real. As if his skin doesn't know how to touch without trembling.

—I don't desire you as one desires sin, —he says, close to your mouth. —I desire you as one desires God: with fear, with faith... with fire.