Ben stayed perfectly still while she worked, closing his eyes like a cat accepting a particularly good scratch behind the ears. The cold shock of the mud against his steam-heated skin was alarming, but the focused, gentle touch of her fingers was worth the thermal confusion.

When she declared him "enlightened," he cracked one eye open, trying to look wise despite the fact that half his face was currently hardening into a plaster cast.

"Forbidden knowledge," he repeated, his voice dropping an octave into a mock-guru register. "Yes. The mountain spoke to me. It said, 'Ben, your pores are congested.' It was very humbling."

He leaned into the kiss immediately, humming a low sound of approval against her lips. The contrast—the cold, drying mud on his skin and the warm, wet softness of her mouth—was fantastic. It was weird and sensory and exactly the kind of memory he was going to file away for a rainy Tuesday in three years.

When she pulled back and told him to be nice, he scoffed, the sound cracking the drying mask on his cheek slightly.

"Nice?" he asked, feigning offense as he waded over to the wooden box. "Cleo, I am an artiste. I don't do 'nice.' I do 'visionary.' I do 'avant-garde.' You are not a face to me right now; you are a canvas."

He scooped up a generous handful of the white silica paste, feeling the gritty, cold texture between his fingers. He turned back to her, holding his hands up like a surgeon scrubbing in.

"Okay," he said, his expression intensely serious. "Hold still. I’m going to attempt a masterpiece. It’s titled 'Girl Who Is About To Have Very Soft Skin.'"

He stepped into her space, the water sloshing gently around their waists. He didn't just slap the mud on. He took his time.

He started with her nose, dabbing a perfect white dot on the tip.

"Boop," he whispered.

Then he moved to her cheeks. He used the pads of his thumbs to sweep the white paste across her skin, following the line of her cheekbones. The mud was freezing, and he watched her eyes widen at the temperature, but he kept his touch warm and firm.

"This is very high-tech," he murmured, concentrating as he applied a stripe to her forehead. "I'm channeling my inner Bob Ross. Just happy little accidents. Happy little clouds of silica."

He worked his way down to her chin, covering every inch of skin until she was just a pair of bright eyes and a smiling mouth surrounded by a white mask. He used his pinky to carefully wipe a smudge away from her eyebrow, treating the moment with the gravity of restoring a Renaissance painting.

He stepped back to admire his work, tilting his head to the side.

"Wow," he breathed, nodding slowly. "Terrifying. Absolutely haunting. You look like a scooby-doo villain. It’s working for me."

He stepped back in, sliding his muddy hands down to rest on her waist—under the water where they would rinse clean—and pulled her hips against his.

"You look beautiful," he said, the joke vanishing as he looked at her eyes framed by the white mask. "Even looking like a swamp ghost. Still the best thing I've ever seen."

He leaned down, hovering just inches from her lips.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he warned softly, his eyes dancing. "It’s going to be gritty. It might ruin the structural integrity of my mask. But I’m willing to take the risk if you are."

Cleo laughed softly as he held so perfectly still for her, the sound warm and affectionate, her fingers lingering on his skin just a second longer than necessary.

“Forbidden knowledge,” she echoed fondly, eyes bright. “I knew the mountain would speak to you eventually.” She smiled, thumb brushing carefully along his jaw where the mud was already starting to set. “Very brave of you to listen.”

When he leaned into the kiss, she met him without hesitation, smiling into it, the odd mix of cold paste and warm water making the moment feel strangely intimate. When she pulled back, her eyes stayed on his for a beat longer than playful banter required.

At his offense over being nice, she huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course,” she said. “Visionary. I should’ve known.”

She held still when he stepped closer, chin lifting just slightly in compliance. The cold dab on her nose made her blink in surprise, then laugh.

“Hey—” she protested softly, but there was no real complaint in it. Just trust.

She let him work, eyes following his face as he concentrated, feeling the contrast of the cool mud and the warmth of his hands. When he brushed her cheekbones, she inhaled slowly, steadying herself against his forearms.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” she murmured. “I feel extremely… curated.”

When he wiped the smudge from her eyebrow with such care, something in her expression softened completely. She stayed quiet, letting him finish, letting herself be looked at.

At his verdict, she rolled her eyes fondly. “Scooby-Doo villain?” she said. “Wow. I feel very seen.”

When his hands slid to her waist under the water, pulling her closer, her hands came up instinctively to rest on his forearms, grounding and familiar. Her smile gentled at his words, eyes steady on his.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “You look pretty good yourself. Very… enlightened swamp monk.”

When he warned her about the kiss, she smiled—slow, affectionate, certain.

“I trust your artistic vision,” she said softly. “Even if it’s gritty.”

She leaned in first this time, closing the distance, kissing him gently—careful, unhurried, smiling against his mouth like the moment mattered because they did.

“Worth the risk,” she murmured.

Cleo didn’t pull away after the kiss.

Instead, she let it linger for a breath, then another, the steam curling around them as if it were conspiring to keep the moment suspended. She smiled against his mouth, soft and unguarded, before her hands slid up—slow, certain—wrapping around the back of his neck.

“Careful,” she murmured fondly, close enough that her words brushed his lips. “You’re going to crack your masterpiece.”

She shifted closer, the water rippling around them as she lifted herself just enough to wrap her legs around his waist, instinctive and familiar, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her forehead rested briefly against his, mud masks brushing in a ridiculous, intimate way that made her laugh quietly.

“Sorry,” she added, not sounding sorry at all. “You looked… very holdable.”

Her arms tightened slightly around his neck, not clinging—just anchoring. She pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to his cheek, careful of the drying mask but affectionate all the same.

“I like you like this,” she said softly, eyes warm. “Warm water. Steam. No rush.” She smiled, thumbs brushing lightly along his jaw where the mud was already setting.

She stayed there, wrapped around him, content and steady, letting the lagoon hold them both as much as they held each other.

Cleo didn’t loosen her legs from around him.

She trusted the water. Trusted his hold. Trusted the way the lagoon carried them both without asking anything in return.

Slowly, deliberately, she leaned back—letting her spine arc, letting her weight surrender to the warmth. Her arms slipped free from his shoulders and extended outward on either side of her, palms open, fingers relaxed, floating just beneath the surface as the water held them up.

Her head tipped back.

Above her, the sky was a soft, endless grey—low clouds drifting, steam rising to meet them. The air was cool against her face, the water hot against her skin, and the contrast settled into her bones like something medicinal.

She didn’t speak.

She just breathed.

The world narrowed to sensation: the steady strength of him anchoring her at the waist, the gentle lap of mineral water against her ribs, the faint sound of wind somewhere beyond the stone walls. Her thoughts quieted until there was nothing left to reach for, nothing to anticipate.

Just this.

Just floating.

Just being held while she let go.

Ben adjusted his grip instantly.

As she leaned back, surrendering her center of gravity to the water and to him, his hands slid from her waist to her hips, his fingers splaying wide underwater to cradle her. He locked his elbows, turning his body into a living, breathing piling for her to tether herself to.

He watched her drift back, her hair fanning out in the water like a dark halo, the white mud mask stark against the grey-blue lagoon. Her throat was exposed, her arms spread wide like she was embracing the entire sky.

It was the ultimate trust fall.

For a woman who spent her life managing perceptions, handling crises, and keeping the world from spinning off its axis, seeing her like this—completely unmoored, floating, held up only by the water and his hands—did something to Ben’s chest that felt a lot like a heart attack, but the good kind.

He didn't speak. He didn't want to ripple the water or break the silence she had finally found.

He just stood there, legs planted firmly on the silica-soft bottom of the lagoon, and held her. He watched the steam curl off her wet skin. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, slow and deep. He watched a single drop of condensation roll from her chin down the long, elegant line of her throat.

He felt fiercely, irrationally useful.

This is the job, he thought, the realization settling over him like the heavy steam. Forget the stadiums. Forget the noise. This is the gig. Just keep her floating.

He swayed slightly with the movement of the water, rocking her almost imperceptibly, just enough to let her feel the weightlessness. He stood guard over her peace, staring down anyone else in the lagoon who even thought about swimming too close to their little pocket of steam.

After a long minute, he saw her take a deeper breath, her eyelashes fluttering as the cold air nipped at her nose.

Ben tightened his grip on her hips, a silent signal.

"I got you," he murmured, the words low and vibrating through the water between them.
He exerted a gentle, steady pressure, guiding her back upright. As she broke the surface tension and curled back toward him, he was ready, his arms shifting instantly to wrap around her wet, slippery back, pulling her flush against his chest before she could even shiver.

He rested his chin on the top of her wet, muddy head, holding her tight.

"Ten out of ten," he whispered into her ear, his voice thick with affection. "Excellent buoyancy. impeccable form. You looked like a very relaxed, very beautiful starfish."
He squeezed her, grounding her back to earth.

"How was the sky?"

Cleo came back to him slowly.

Not startled. Not rushed. Just… returning.

As he guided her upright and wrapped his arms around her, she let herself fold into his chest without resistance, water streaming off her shoulders as she tucked her face beneath his chin. Her arms came back around him, lighter now, hands resting against his ribs, her breath still deep and unhurried.

She didn’t speak right away.

She stayed there, eyes closed, forehead pressed to his collarbone, listening to the steady beat beneath her ear. Feeling the way his hold was firm without being tight—present without demanding anything from her.

When he kissed the top of her head, she smiled.

“Mm,” she murmured softly, the sound more feeling than word. She shifted just enough to tip her face up, her cheek brushing his chest, eyes still half-lidded. “Grey,” she said finally, voice quiet and content. “Big. Soft. Like it wasn’t asking me to be anything.”

Her fingers curled slightly against his back, grounding herself again.

“I forgot what that feels like,” she admitted, barely above the steam. “To just… float. Not fix. Not steer. Just let go.”

She leaned back in just enough to look up at him properly, eyes warm, mask cracked and ridiculous and perfect.

“Thank you for catching me,” she said simply.

Then she rested her head back against his chest, arms snug around him, letting the water rock them together.

“And for the record,” she added lightly, a smile in her voice, “ten out of ten anchoring. Very sturdy. Extremely trustworthy.”

She closed her eyes again, utterly at ease, and stayed right there.

Cleo shifted in his arms, the movement slow and deliberate, water rippling softly around them. She lifted just enough to create space, her body still anchored to his, legs wrapped around his waist like she had no intention of going anywhere.

Her hand came up, fingers slick with warm water and traces of drying mud, and she caught his cheek gently—thumb resting along his jaw, the rest of her palm warm and sure. She didn’t rush it. She let the moment stretch, her eyes meeting his for a quiet beat before she guided his face downward.

She found his lips with her own, unhurried and tender, the kiss soft at first—an exhale more than a demand. The steam wrapped around them, muting the world, making the contact feel private and suspended.

She lingered there, mouth moving against his with an easy familiarity, not asking for more than the moment offered. When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested briefly against his, breath warm, steady.

Her hand stayed on his cheek, thumb brushing once along his skin, like punctuation.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t need to.

Cleo stayed close to him, the water still rocking them gently, steam curling around their shoulders. She let her hand trail down from his cheek, fingers lingering at his collarbone before drifting back up to rest lightly on his shoulder.

She hesitated for half a second—not uncertain, just choosing the moment—then smiled softly.

“Hey,” she said quietly, tilting her head so she could look up at him. “Can I ask you something a little… domestic?”

Her thumb traced a slow, absent circle against his skin. “I know exactly what this place is going to do to my hair,” she added, amused, eyes flicking briefly toward the misty sky as if the lagoon itself were listening. “The silica. The minerals. The absolute betrayal.”

She laughed under her breath, then looked back at him. “I came prepared,” she said. “Like, very prepared. Masks, treatments, oils—the whole emergency kit.”

Her expression softened into something more intimate, more hopeful. “So I was wondering,” she said gently, “if later tonight… while we’re in the tub… you’d wash my hair for me.”

She shrugged lightly, almost bashful. “Just… take your time with it. Help me undo whatever this place does.” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “I trust you with it.”

She leaned in just a little closer again, content and warm, waiting for his answer like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Ben felt a slow, ridiculous grin spread beneath the hardening mask on his face.

Can I ask you something a little… domestic?

She said it tentatively, like she was asking for a favor, unaware that she was actually offering him the Holy Grail of boyfriend activities. Washing her hair wasn't a chore; it was a promotion. It was intimate, tactile, and required her to trust him with the one thing she was most protective of.

He tightened his arms around her waist underwater, pulling her hips flush against his again.

"Domestic?" he repeated, his voice low and vibrating with amusement. "Babe, domestic is my favorite genre. I am striving for domestic. I want to win an award for Best Supporting Actor in a Domestic Role."

He looked down at her, seeing the genuine hope in her eyes, and shook his head slightly, marveling at her.

"You're asking if I want to get my hands in your hair while you relax in a tub?" He raised his eyebrows, the mud on his forehead cracking slightly with the movement. "Let me check my schedule. Oh wait, it’s clear. Indefinitely."

He moved one hand from her waist, bringing it up out of the water—clean, rinsed free of the mud—to tuck a wet, silica-stiffened curl behind her ear. He felt the texture of it, already starting to get that distinctive crunch the lagoon was famous for.

"I accept the mission," he said solemnly. "I will battle the minerals. I will deploy the emergency kit. I will condition the hell out of you, Cleo. I’m actually a very underrated shampoo boy. My scalp massage technique is legendary in three counties."

He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, the masks brushing together with a faint, gritty sound that made him smile.

"But seriously," he whispered, dropping the joke to let her hear the truth of it. "I’d love to. Taking care of you is literally the only thing I want to do today. If that means spending an hour detangling this disaster..."

He tugged gently on the curl near her ear.

"...then I’m your guy. I’m cheap labor. I work for kisses and room service fries."

Cleo laughed softly when she felt his arms tighten around her again, the sound warm and a little disbelieving.

“Best Supporting Actor in a Domestic Role,” she repeated, smiling up at him. “I’d vote for you. Standing ovation. Lifetime achievement.”

When he talked about checking his schedule, her eyes softened, something affectionate and relieved flickering there. “Indefinitely,” she echoed quietly. “That’s a really good availability window.”

She stilled when his hand came up to tuck the stiff curl behind her ear, her smile turning fond and knowing. “Yeah,” she said, amused. “That crunch? That’s betrayal setting in.” She tilted her head slightly into his touch. “This place is beautiful, but it is not kind.”

At his solemn acceptance of the mission, she laughed again, shaking her head. “Legendary in three counties?” she teased. “I feel very lucky to have secured your services.” Her hands slid up his arms, resting easily at his shoulders. “And I absolutely believe you about the scalp massage. You have very… confident hands.”

When he leaned his forehead against hers and let the jokes fade, her expression softened completely. She stayed there with him, eyes warm, steady.

“Hey,” she started, instinctively, then stopped herself with a small, breathy laugh. “—no. Okay. You told me not to thank you for things like this.” She shook her head slightly, smiling. “So I’m not thanking you.”

Her thumb brushed gently along his shoulder, grounding. “I’m just… really grateful,” she said instead, quieter, more honest. “That I get to be with someone who wants to do this. Who treats taking care of me like it’s normal. Like it’s a given.”

She smiled when he tugged lightly at the curl. “And if you’re really willing to detangle the disaster,” she added, affectionate, “I promise to pay you in kisses and fries. Possibly also eternal loyalty.”

She leaned in just a fraction closer, content and certain.

“I can’t wait,” she said softly.

Cleo lingered against him for a moment longer, the steam wrapping them in that hushed, unreal quiet, before her attention drifted outward—toward the dark rock walls ringing the lagoon.

Thin streams of crystal-clear water spilled from narrow fissures in the stone, cutting silver lines down the black lava. Cold. Untouched. The opposite of the milky warmth holding them up.

She tipped her head in that direction, thoughtful.

“Okay,” she said softly, fingers still resting at his jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheek where the mask was starting to dry. “Before this turns us into ancient artifacts…”

Her mouth curved, fond and a little amused.

“They’ve got fresh water coming straight out of the rock over there,” she went on. “Like—glacial cold. No minerals. No nonsense.” A pause, then quieter: “We should rinse our faces first. Before it sets all the way. Reset the whole situation.”

She shifted just enough to orient them toward the side of the pool, but she didn’t let go of him—one hand sliding down to lace her fingers through his, keeping them tethered together as she floated closer.

“And then,” she added, almost casually, “we reward ourselves.”

Her eyes flicked toward the low wooden bar built into the edge of the lagoon, half-hidden by steam. Bottles lined the shelves behind it. People lounged nearby with drinks balanced carefully at the water’s edge.

“They’ve got the good stuff,” she said, voice easy, already imagining it. “The silica smoothie. The skyr one. Juices if we want to pretend we’re being virtuous.” A beat. “And prosecco. Beer. Wine.”

She glanced back at him, lips tilting.

“I feel like post–mud mask calls for something celebratory. Or at least something cold we didn’t have to stand up for.”

She squeezed his hand lightly, grounding, affectionate.

“So,” she murmured, starting to guide them toward the rock wall. “Cold water rinse first. Shock ourselves back into our bodies.” A soft smile. “Then we float to the bar and decide who we’re being today—wellness couple or vacation menace.”

She didn’t rush. She never did with him. Just drifted forward, steam and water and quiet carrying them along, perfectly content to let the morning unfold one small, shared decision at a time.

Ben let her guide him toward the rock wall, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of her hand as they waded through the milky blue water.

"Ancient artifacts," he muttered, reaching up to touch his face. The mud had dried into a stiff, crackling shell that made him feel like a pottery project gone wrong. "Yeah. I can feel my expression fossilizing. If I sneeze right now, my face might actually shatter."

He eyed the thin streams of glacial water cutting down the black lava rock with deep suspicion.

"Glacial cold," he repeated, looking at her like she’d just suggested they cuddle a polar bear. "You know, for someone who claims to love me, you are very eager to introduce me to hypothermia today. First the air, now the face-freeze."

He sighed, dramatic and resigned, but he followed her anyway. He would follow her into a volcano if she held his hand like that.

"But you’re right," he conceded. "I need to rinse. My eyebrows are currently structural load-bearing walls for this mask, and I’m worried about them."

They reached the falling water, and Ben didn't hesitate—mostly because if he stopped to think about the temperature difference, he’d chicken out. He stepped under the stream, letting the icy, crystal-clear water hit his face.

It was shocking. It was electric. It was like slapping God high-five.

He sputtered, scrubbing the mud away with frantic hands, gasping as the cold water washed away the grit and revealed the skin underneath. He emerged a second later, shaking his wet hair like a dog, water flying everywhere, his skin tingling and bright red from the temperature contrast.

"Okay!" he yelled, blinking water out of his eyes and looking at her. "I’m awake! I am violently awake! That was exhilarating and terrible!"

He wiped his eyes, watching her rinse off with significantly more grace, the water cascading over her features and leaving her glowing.

"Now," he said, slicking his wet hair back and looking toward the swim-up bar with the intensity of a man lost in the desert. " regarding the 'wellness couple' versus 'vacation menace' question."

He waded closer to her, wrapping an arm around her wet waist to steal some of her warmth back.

"I think we need to be a hybrid," he declared, steering them toward the floating menu. "We are 'Wellness Menaces.' We are 'Chaotic Good.' I say we get the green juice—the one that tastes like a lawnmower—to apologize to our livers for last night."

He grinned, that boyish, charming smile flashing even with his hair plastered to his forehead.

"And then?" He leaned in, kissing her wet, cold cheek. "We get the prosecco. Because we’re celebrating. We survived the mud. We survived the cold. And I’m pretty sure I look 5% more radiant, so we need to toast to my vanity."

Cleo watched him the entire time he stood under the stream, lips pressed together to keep from laughing outright as he sputtered and shook himself like that. She lifted her hands instinctively when the spray flew her way, then dropped them again, smiling openly at him.

“Violently awake is exactly what that looks like,” she said, voice warm and amused. “That water doesn’t ease you into anything. It just… reintroduces you to existence.”

She stepped under the falling water herself then, slower, bracing one palm against the rock as the cold spilled over her forehead and down her cheeks. Her breath hitched once—sharp and surprised—but she stayed there, rinsing deliberately. Fingers smoothed along her jaw, over her nose, into her hairline, washing away every last trace of chalky white.

“Give me a second,” she added lightly, glancing at him through the stream. “I’m not ordering drinks while I still look like a haunted statue.”

She ducked her face once more, blinking hard as the water ran clean, then stepped back into the warmth of the lagoon, skin flushed and glowing, hair slicked back from her face.

“Okay,” she said, satisfied, reaching for him again—her hand finding his side automatically. “Now I’m a respectable human.”

When he wrapped his arm around her waist, she leaned into it without thinking, stealing his warmth back just as easily as he’d taken hers. She tipped her head up toward him, smiling at the way he said hybrid like it was a manifesto.

“‘Wellness Menaces,’” she repeated, nodding thoughtfully. “That feels correct. Cleansing rituals followed immediately by questionable choices.”

Her mouth curved as she looked toward the floating menu. “Green juice first,” she agreed. “The lawnmower one. We’ll pretend it’s repentance.” A beat, softer and teasing. “Then prosecco. Because surviving mineral mud and glacial water feels worth celebrating.”

When he kissed her cheek, she turned her head just enough for her lips to brush his jaw in return—brief, affectionate, grounding.

“And for the record,” she added, squeezing his side gently, “you do look annoyingly radiant. So yes. A toast to your vanity feels not only appropriate but necessary.”

She began guiding them toward the bar again, unhurried, content, steam curling around them as she leaned into him.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Clean faces. Awake bodies. Drinks. Let’s commit to the chaos.”

Cleo kept his hand in hers as she guided him through the warm water, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles against his skin.

“Come on,” she murmured, amused. “Before you start narrating your own recovery like it’s a documentary.”

At the swim-up bar, she leaned forward slightly, steam curling around her shoulders as she glanced at the menu. She didn’t hesitate long.

“Two green juices,” she said easily. “Same one.”

She turned back to him right away, fingers still laced through his like ordering was the least important part of the moment.

While they waited, she stepped closer and lifted herself into him without ceremony, arms sliding around his neck. Her legs wrapped securely around his waist, settling there like it was the most natural place in the world. The water buoyed them, her body warm against his, steady and unguarded.

“There,” she said quietly, forehead brushing his. “Much better.”

She stayed there, hanging on him comfortably, cheek resting near his temple. One hand slid into his damp hair, fingers combing through slowly, absentminded and affectionate. The other rested at the back of his neck, grounding.

“This part,” she murmured after a beat. “After the shock. Before we rush anywhere. I like this.”

When the drinks arrived, she didn’t immediately pull away. She lingered another second, then reached just enough to take one glass and pass the other into his hand.

“One each,” she said softly, lips curving. “Commitment.”

She lifted her glass slightly, a lazy, understated toast.

“To not turning into ancient artifacts,” she added, smiling.

She took a sip, made a small face at the taste, then laughed quietly into his shoulder, still wrapped around him, perfectly content to stay right there while the steam rose and the morning stretched on.

Ben adjusted his grip instantly, his hands sliding down to cup the backs of her thighs underwater, anchoring her weight against him. He didn't complain about the reversal. Honestly? Being the tree worked for him. It meant she was center-mass, wrapped around him like she intended to stay there until the next ice age.

"I accept my fate," he murmured into her wet hair, swaying slightly to keep them balanced in the water. "I am the tree. You are the wildlife. It’s a very symbiotic ecosystem we’ve got going on here."

He looked at the green sludge in his hand, then at hers. It vibrated with a terrifyingly healthy color—a green so bright it looked radioactive.

"Okay," he said, tapping his plastic cup against hers with a dull thud. "To not becoming artifacts. To photosynthesis. To… whatever this is doing to our insides."

He took a sip.

He didn't immediately put the cup down. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut, a full-body shudder rolling through him that had nothing to do with the cold air.

"Oh, wow," he rasped, opening one eye to look at her. "That is… a lot of personality. That has a very aggressive flavor profile. It tastes like I’m licking a lawnmower, Cleo. A lawnmower that has only ever mowed spicy weeds."

He watched her take a long, disciplined sip of her own, her throat working as she swallowed the thick mixture. She didn't flinch. She just looked at him with those bright, challenging eyes, daring him to be healthy.

"You’re a machine," he whispered, impressed and slightly horrified. "How are you doing that without grimacing? You look like you’re drinking ambrosia."

He sighed, resigning himself to the bit. He wasn't going to be the weak link in the wellness chain.

"Fine," he muttered, lifting the cup again. "If you can do it, I can do it. We are glowing. We are vibrating with minerals. I love nature."

He took a massive gulp this time, committing to the cause. He felt the ginger burn his throat and the kale settle heavy in his stomach, but he kept his eyes locked on hers the whole time. He drank it like it was a dare, draining half the cup in one go before pulling it away with a gasp.

"Okay," he wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, a green mustache briefly staining his skin before the water washed it away. "I think I can feel my vision sharpening. I think I can see through time."

He rested his forehead against hers, their wet noses brushing, the half-empty cups still held carefully out of the water between them.

"We’re finishing these," he said, his voice dropping to a low, stubborn rumble. "We are not quitters. We are going to drink every drop of this swamp water, and then we are going to be so healthy it’s annoying. We’re going to be insufferable."

He squeezed her thighs tighter, pulling her hips flush against his, letting the warmth of the water seep into his bones to counteract the cold juice.

"Drink up, koala," he ordered softly, grinning against her lips. "Make me proud."

Cleo stayed wrapped around him, feeling his hands steady at the backs of her thighs beneath the water, the quiet strength in the way he held her like it was second nature. The lagoon swayed gently around them, steam curling up between their faces, turning the morning soft and unreal.

“Very strong tree,” she murmured, smiling against his temple. “Excellent root system. Very dependable forestry.”

When their cups tapped together with that dull plastic thud, she lifted hers with a small, almost ceremonial nod.

“To not fossilizing,” she said softly. “And to becoming unbearably vibrant.”

She took a long, steady sip just as he braced himself and then visibly suffered. The shudder that rolled through him shook the water between them, and she had to press her lips together to keep from laughing into her drink. She swallowed cleanly, composed, throat working in a slow, controlled rhythm.

When he stared at her like she had just performed a minor miracle, she raised one brow at him.

“You really don’t understand my training,” she said, calm and slightly smug.

She adjusted in his arms, the warm water sliding along her shoulders, her legs tightening just enough to keep her balance as he swayed.

“My parents went through a heavy smoothie phase in the nineties and early 2000s,” she continued lightly. “Blenders running at six in the morning. Wheatgrass shots before school. Powders that came in unmarked jars and promised enlightenment.”

She took another sip—slow, deliberate, unflinching.

“And let’s just say there were… other green influences in the house too,” she added, lips curving faintly. “Very herbal. Very devoted to plant-based living. The air was… consistently earthy.”

Her fingers slid into his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead as she studied him.

“This?” she said, lifting her cup slightly. “This tastes like home.”

When he doubled down about finishing them, stubborn and dramatic and so deeply committed to the bit, her expression softened in that way it always did when he chose pride over comfort.

“We are absolutely finishing them,” she agreed. “We did not come all this way to be defeated by kale.”

She leaned in, brushing her nose lightly against his, steam dampening her lashes.

“Watch,” she murmured, eyes steady, daring.

And then she did it.

She tilted her head back and drank the rest in one smooth pull, throat working as she swallowed every last aggressive ounce like it was a shot of something reckless and celebratory instead of liquefied vegetables. The cold hit first. Then the ginger burn. Then the dense, grassy aftershock. She didn’t break eye contact once.

When the cup was empty, she lowered it slowly.

Exhaled.

Blink.

A faint flush rose to her cheeks from the ginger and the heat of the lagoon.

Then she wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and let out a soft, satisfied laugh that vibrated against his skin.

“See?” she said lightly. “Just pretend it’s terrible tequila and you lost a bet.”

She held the empty cup up between them like a trophy, steam swirling around her wrist.

“Gone.”

Her legs tightened slightly around his waist, her body warm and buoyant against his, pride flickering in her eyes as she brushed her thumb slowly along his jaw.

“You’re up,” she added quietly, voice low and playful. “Don’t embarrass the ecosystem.”