𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈: 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 *

Warning: Sexual Content

[TRIGGER WARNINGS: Nightmares, Blood, Angst?]

* * *

Following a much calmer dinner compared to the previous night's salacity, Jean proposed that the two of you should wash off on the walk back to your new room. Although his suggestion was harmless on the surface, saying you smelled strongly of 'sunshine,' his actual intention was quite clear: you stank of sweat. An entire day's worth of shopping in the city's furnace would do that to even the cleanest of saints–even Mr. Ackerman. You were no exception. To stink was to be human, but you quickly locked yourself in the washroom and stripped off your soiled fabrics before Jean noticed you had disappeared.

You stepped under the water spout and studied the strange contraption once wholly bare. You tried pushing, then pulling, but only when you turned the faucet to the left did any water come out. And the water was ice cold–colder than Death. The sudden chill sent you lurching to the furthest edge of the tile, where the cold could not reach you.

From what little you knew of spray baths, they were supposed to be at least a little warm. Hitch once bragged that the spray bath the Freudenbergs kept in their main house was so hot it even created steam. How you so desperately wished she was near. You could ask her how long the wait might be if she was there. You missed her terribly.

The water eventually grew warmer, and you inched under the shower until there was no going back. Soon, a thin, white curtain concealed your pleasure while warmth rained from above, rinsing away the afternoon's embarrassing tears and the whole day's sweat. The temperature was nothing like the sauna Hitch had described; spray baths were a warm hug from Mother Nature's tender heart and man's insatiable thirst for innovation.

The best part of it all? It seemed that the wealthy were rewarded for simply being rich. Free, fancy, fragrant soaps and lotions filled the washroom in the most adorable bottles you had ever seen. By the time you striped all the dead skin and oil from your body, you smelled like the lushest spring garden. Lemon, rosemary, and violet wafted through the damp air once you finally shut off the water and toweled your hair and body. Warm fabric glided against sore muscles, and each pass of your own hands had you craving more.

This is almost as good as sex, you thought.

Almost.

Feeling so clean and warm also made you feel fuzzy. After the pre-dinner nap, one might think you might be more awake, but that was far from the truth. Two hefty yawns left your mouth before you spun the faucet off. Another three followed once you were mostly dried and wrapped in a towel.

When you stepped into the bedroom with only the towel to cover your shame, your eyes barely remained open. Between the thin line of sight, you saw no one else in the room. A few candles flickered on the nightstand, but that was all.

You should get dressed. You knew that. A nightgown was only a few feet away–stowed in dark dressers that were much less inviting than the plush bed that glowed pearl under candle flickers.

Distant water rained across the suite, and the gentle rhythm convinced you to drop the towel on the floor. You did not redress; you slipped under the covers and waited for the water to stop splashing.

The bed was so beautifully warm, and your eyes grew heavier with each passing second until all your energy vanished. Sleep stole you from waiting for Jean to match your pristine cleanliness.

A few noises forced your eyes to flutter open in the meantime–some creaking of wood, some scratching of floorboards, some shuffling of things–but your eyes closed each time silence returned. You barely noticed that the water had long since turned off or that the room had grown brighter than when you crawled under the blankets. You chalked the changes up to dreaming, as your conscious mind was too tired to acknowledge that the real world was different.