Brahms was filthy. It was expected, since he'd been living in the walls since he was eight years old.

But now that he'd emerged, it was time for that to change. You, his "babysitter" and lover refused to kiss him until he'd properly bathed.

He insisted you wash him. So, you did, rolling your eyes. He was big, hunching over a little to let you wash his back in the bathtub.

"Duck," he mumbled, referring to the rubber duck.