Ben let out a soft, vibrating chuckle against her neck when she mentioned his "terrible jokes," the sound rumbling through his chest and into her back.

"Objection," he murmured, his voice thick with sleepiness and a smile he couldn't hide. "My jokes are top tier. They are sophisticated. Our child is going to be the funniest kid in kindergarten. They’re going to be doing tight five-minute sets at show-and-tell."

He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her even more flush against him, needing to eliminate every millimeter of space between them. Hearing her say she could see it—the mornings, the messes, the life—made his heart hammer a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. It was terrifying, sure, but mostly it felt like looking at a map and finally recognizing the destination.

"But regarding the 'tiny human' skills," he whispered, his tone shifting, losing the joke and finding the raw, honest center of it. "You have a lot of faith in me. My experience is mostly limited to keeping Jax alive since we were kids and not dropping expensive guitars."

He pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, lingering there.

"But if you think I can do it... if you think I'm ready to show up for a little person like that?" He swallowed hard, the emotion clogging his throat again. "Then I believe you. Because you’re usually right about everything. Except my jokes."

He moved his hand on her stomach, splaying his fingers wide as if he could already protect whatever might be happening in there.

"Safe," he repeated, testing the word. "I like safe. Safe is good. I think I've spent my whole life trying to be loud, or impressive, or cool. But safe? For you?"

He rested his chin on her shoulder, closing his eyes.

"That’s the best thing I could ever be."

He drifted there for a second, surrounded by the scent of her and the quiet of the room, feeling the luckiest he’d ever felt in his life.

"And I'm glad you're okay with the barnacle situation," he mumbled into her hair, his voice fading as the adrenaline crash finally took hold. "Because I meant it. I am attached. I am structural now."

He squeezed her one last time, a silent promise.

"Sleep now, Cleo," he whispered, drifting now, safe in the harbor she'd built for him. "We've got a big future to rest up for. Plus, we have a very serious appointment with some silica mud in the morning, and I need you rested for the robe wars."

Cleo smiled when she felt his laugh against her neck, the sound warm and grounding.

“Objection noted,” she murmured, voice soft and fond. “But I stand by my assessment. Your jokes are… ambitious. Kindergarten audiences are very discerning.”

She let him pull her closer, welcomed it, her back settling fully into his chest like that space had always been shaped for her. She reached back for his hand again, lacing their fingers together and holding on as his tone shifted, as the joke fell away.

“You underestimate yourself,” she said quietly when he talked about faith, about readiness. “You’ve been showing up for people your whole life. You just never called it that.” Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, slow and reassuring. “You’re gentle when it counts. You pay attention. That’s most of it.”

When his hand spread over her stomach, her breath caught—not sharp, just full. She covered his hand with hers, keeping it there.

“I can see it,” she went on, voice low and certain. “You half-asleep, pacing the floor. Talking nonsense to calm someone who doesn’t even have words yet. Teaching them music before they know what music is.” A small smile curved her mouth. “Our life. Loud sometimes. Messy sometimes. But ours.”

At the word safe, she nodded once, pressing her cheek lightly against his forearm.

“You already are,” she said. “You don’t have to prove anything else to me.”

She felt him settle, felt the weight of him ease as sleep began to claim him, and it softened something deep in her chest. When he joked again, fading, she let out a quiet, affectionate breath.

“Structural barnacle,” she whispered, amused and tender. “I like the sound of that.”

At his last words, her eyes closed. She tightened her fingers around his hand one more time, anchoring herself in the promise of it.

“Okay,” she murmured, calm and full and certain. “Sleep.”

She stayed awake just a moment longer, listening to his breathing even out, letting herself imagine that future he mentioned—not loud, not flashy, just steady and shared—before finally letting herself rest too.

Ben listened as her breathing shifted, lengthening into the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep.

He didn't move for a long time. He just lay there, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, feeling the way his own heartbeat seemed to be syncing up with hers. The room was starting to cool down—that sharp, crisp Icelandic chill seeping in through the invisible cracks—and he felt a protective instinct flare up that had nothing to do with saving guitars.

He shifted carefully, inches at a time, trying not to disturb the structural integrity of the spoon. He reached down, grabbing the thick, heavy duvet they had kicked off in the heat of the moment. With the precision of a bomb disposal expert, he pulled it up, draping the weight of it over her legs, her waist, her shoulders. He tucked the edge of it under her chin, cocooning her completely, making sure not a single draft could touch her.

He settled back down, his arm heavy over the blankets now, his hand finding the curve of her hip through the down filling.

"Safe," he whispered into the dark, a final seal on the night.

Then, the exhaustion pulled him under, and Ben Wilder slept harder than he had in a decade.



The first thing Ben registered was the light.

It wasn't the harsh, accusatory sun of Los Angeles. It was a soft, diffuse, steely grey light bleeding through the edges of the blackout curtains, suggesting that the world outside was awake, even if he wasn't entirely sure he was.

The second thing he registered was that his arm was completely asleep.

He was pinned. Cleo was sprawled halfway across him, her head resting on his chest, one leg thrown over his thighs, effectively trapping him in the most comfortable prison imaginable. Her hair was a chaotic halo of curls tickling his chin, and she was breathing warm, soft puffs of air against his collarbone.

Ben blinked at the ceiling, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face as the memories of the night before filtered back in.

The wine. The boots. The desperate, wrecked way she’d whispered his name. The promise.
Sage or Briar.

In the cold light of morning, usually, the panic would set in. The "what did I do?" anxiety. But Ben lay there, pinned by the girl he loved, and checked his internal weather report.

Clear skies.

He felt... grounded. He felt like he’d finally arrived at the destination he’d been driving toward without a map.

He carefully extracted his numb arm from beneath her, shaking the blood back into it with a wince, then checked his watch on the nightstand.

9:08 AM.

"Respectable," he whispered to himself. "We’re practically functional adults."

He shifted, rolling onto his side so he could face her. She was out cold, deep in the kind of sleep that usually required medication or a three-day hiking trip to achieve. He brushed a stray curl off her cheek, his fingers lingering on her soft skin.

"Psst," he whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. "Hey. Future mother of my children. Wake up."

He kissed the tip of her nose, then moved to her ear.

"We have an appointment," he murmured, infusing his voice with a mock-serious urgency. "The silica gods are waiting. And I look terrible without my morning mud. You don't want to see me like this."

He nudged her gently with his knee.

"Come on, sleepyhead. Robe wars start in T-minus ten minutes. I've already been practicing my wizard poses."

Cleo didn’t wake right away.

At first there was only a soft shift—her brow smoothing, her breath deepening—like she was surfacing slowly from somewhere warm and distant. She made a small, content sound against his chest, instinctively burrowing closer when he moved, her arm tightening around his middle as if to say don’t you dare.

“Mmm,” she murmured, barely audible, words tangled in sleep. “Too early.”

When he kissed her forehead and nose, she scrunched her face faintly, lashes fluttering but not quite opening yet. His voice—low, familiar, teasing—cut through the fog a little more.

“Silica gods?” she mumbled into his skin, voice thick and slow. “I thought they were… optional.”

She shifted, one leg hooking more firmly over his thighs, effectively re-trapping him, her cheek pressing into his chest like it belonged there. A sleepy smile tugged at her mouth despite herself.

“Wizard poses,” she added, half-laughing, half-yawning. “That feels… deeply threatening.”

Her eyes finally cracked open just a sliver, unfocused and heavy-lidded. She looked up at him like she had to re-learn the shape of his face, then smiled fully—soft, unguarded, still wrapped in sleep.

“Hi,” she whispered, like she hadn’t seen him in days instead of hours.

She yawned, long and slow, then let her eyes fall shut again, forehead resting against his chest. Her hand slid lazily up his side, fingers curling softly into the skin of his back.

“Five more minutes,” she murmured. “Future mother of your children needs… buffering time.”

Then, quieter—almost instinctive, said without thinking—
“Don’t move. I’m very comfortable right here.”

Cleo stayed curled against him, eyes closed again, but she was awake now in that half-soft, half-dreaming way where everything felt distant and safe.

She shifted slightly, her cheek sliding over his chest until she found the steady rhythm of his heartbeat again. Her fingers traced a slow, absent line along his side, not teasing—just familiar.

“Okay,” she murmured after a beat, voice still heavy with sleep. “Maybe… three minutes. Five was optimistic.”

She took a slow breath, then another, like she was cataloging the morning—the light, the quiet, the fact that she was here and not rushing anywhere. Her leg loosened a little but didn’t move away, still draped over him like an anchor.

“I forgot how nice it is when the world doesn’t ask anything of you right away,” she said softly, more to herself than to him. “No noise. No expectations. Just… this.”

Her eyes opened again, fully this time, and she tipped her head back just enough to look at him. The smile she gave him was gentle and unguarded, the kind that only showed up when she felt completely at ease.

“You look very serious for a man about to be covered in mud,” she added quietly. “Very committed to the ritual.”

She yawned again, smaller this time, then pressed a light kiss to his chest—unhurried, affectionate.

“Alright,” she sighed, finally relenting. “You win. But if you steal my robe, I’m filing a formal complaint with the silica gods.”

She didn’t move yet, though. She lingered for one more heartbeat, letting herself feel how real this morning was before she shifted, slow and reluctant, ready to meet the day with him.

Ben felt her cheek slide against his chest, settling over his heart, and he knew he was in dangerous territory. If he didn't get them out of this bed in the next five minutes, they weren't making it to the lagoon. They were going to order room service, build a pillow fort, and stay horizontal until checkout.

Which, honestly, sounded perfect. But he had a plan. And he wanted to see her in the steam.

"Hi," he whispered back, the word catching slightly in his throat at the sight of her sleepy, unguarded smile.

He let his hand drift up and down her back, tracing the curve of her spine as she bargained for time.

"Buffering time granted," he murmured into her hair. "But I should warn you, my connection speed is very high. I'm already fully loaded and ready to annoy you."

When she talked about the silence and the lack of expectations, Ben's hand stilled for a second. He pressed his chin to the top of her head, soaking in the weight of her words. She was right. This—the quiet, the privacy, the us-ness of it—was rare. And he intended to fight for it.

"I like 'just this' too," he said softly, his voice losing the teasing edge for a moment. "It's my favorite setting. We should default to this setting more often."

He watched her eyes open fully, that soft smile knocking the wind out of him all over again.
"I take the mud very seriously, Cleo," he said, keeping his expression deadpan despite the affection radiating off him. "It's a spiritual experience. It’s exfoliating. It’s the secret to my youthful glow. You think this face maintains itself? It takes dedication. It takes minerals."
He kissed her forehead one last time, inhaling the scent of her, before he squeezed her tight and finally accepted her surrender.

"Formal complaints noted," he said, a wicked glint entering his eyes as he grinned. "But in the event of a robe shortage, survival of the fittest applies. I have longer reach. You have been warned."

He moved then—not pulling away abruptly, but shifting so he could slide his numb arm out from under her neck and sit up. He kept one hand on her waist for a beat longer, grounding himself, before letting go.

"Okay," he said, stretching his arms over his head with a groan that cracked his back in three places. "Three minutes are up. Up and at 'em, Tiger. The lagoon awaits."

He swung his legs out of bed, grabbing his boxers from the floor where he'd abandoned them in a hurry the night before. He stood up, unashamedly naked for a moment in the grey morning light, the cool air hitting his skin, and turned to look back at her nestled in the sheets.

"Unless," he added, pausing with his hands on his hips, a smirk playing on his lips. "You need help with the buffering process? I offer a very specific technical support service. It involves coffee and possibly carrying you to the bathroom."

Cleo didn’t answer his hi out loud. She smiled instead, cheek still tucked over his heart, like the sound would be redundant when the feeling was already there.

When he warned her about buffering time, she made a soft, amused sound, her fingers idly tracing the line of his side.
“Mm,” she murmured. “You say that like I’m supposed to be impressed. Fully loaded before coffee feels… optimistic.”

At his agreement about just this, she stilled, really listening. Her cheek pressed a little more firmly into his chest, anchoring herself there for a second longer than necessary.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “This is the part that feels rare. When nothing’s asking anything of us yet.” Her thumb brushed a small, absent circle near his ribs. “We should absolutely default to this whenever we can.”

His deadpan seriousness about the mud finally pulled a laugh out of her, low and sleepy.
“Minerals,” she repeated, fond. “Of course. I should’ve known there was a whole belief system behind the glow.” She tipped her head back just enough to look at him. “Very devoted. Very enlightened.”

At the robe warning, she scoffed softly.
“That’s unfair,” she said. “You’re taller and you know it.” A beat, then a smile. “But I’ll remember this when I steal yours later.”

When he slid out from under her and announced the end of buffering time, she sighed dramatically and stretched into the sheets like she might protest on principle.
“Three minutes was generous,” she muttered. “But fine. I hear the call of the lagoon.”

She watched him stand in the grey morning light, eyes still heavy-lidded but appreciative. When he offered technical support, she pushed herself upright, the sheets pooling around her waist, and looked at him thoughtfully.

“Well,” she said slowly, considering. “Here’s the thing. I am awake. I am cooperative.” She tilted her head. “But I am not vertical yet.”

She held out her arms toward him, open and unmistakable, a small smile tugging at her mouth.
“So if you’re offering the carrying option,” she added gently, “I think that’s the most efficient solution.”

Once he scooped her up and carried her into the bathroom, she relaxed into him easily, one arm looped around his neck.
“See?” she murmured. “Problem-solving.”

He set her down by the sink, and she immediately reached for a makeup remover pad, leaning over the counter as she wiped away the remnants of the night before. Her movements were unhurried, comfortable—like this was a routine she didn’t have to rush through.

“Okay,” she said softly once her face was clean, splashing it with cool water. She brushed her teeth next, glancing at him in the mirror with a small, content smile around the toothbrush. “Now I’m officially human.”

She rinsed, dried her face, then stepped back into the bedroom long enough to pull on her bathing suit, slipping it on with practiced ease before returning to the bathroom. She shrugged into a white, fluffy robe, tying it loosely at the waist.

“There,” she said, smoothing the sleeves, finally awake now. She looked at him, eyes warm.
“Lagoon-ready.”

Ben leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his bare chest, ankles crossed, watching the transformation with a kind of fascinated reverence.

He’d seen Cleo in evening gowns that stopped traffic. He’d seen her in oversized vintage tees that belonged to him. He’d seen her in nothing at all (his personal favorite genre). But there was something about watching her in the harsh, unforgiving light of a hotel bathroom, scrubbing her face and brushing her teeth, that hit him differently. It felt… permanent. It felt like a scene from the life she’d described earlier—the messy, quiet, real life.

Watching her spit toothpaste into the sink shouldn't have been romantic. It really shouldn't have been. And yet, Ben felt a swell of affection so large it was actually inconvenient.

"Official human," he echoed, pushing off the doorframe as she finished rinsing, walking up behind her to catch her eye in the mirror. He rested his chin on the top of her head, grinning at their reflection. "I don’t know. I kind of missed the smudged-mascara raccoon look. It was very rock and roll. It was giving 'indie sleaze album cover' in the best way."

He waited while she ducked into the bedroom to change, taking the opportunity to quickly brush his own teeth—minty fresh was a non-negotiable for the robe wars—and run a hand through his hair. He attempted to tame the gravity-defying situation happening on top of his head, staring critically at a cowlick that refused to submit to water or prayer.

"Fine," he told his reflection. "Be that way. The wind is going to humble you anyway."

When she emerged in the fluffy white robe, announcing she was ready, Ben stopped wrestling with his hair and felt a grin split his face.

"Lagoon-ready," he repeated, looking her up and down with exaggerated appreciation. "You look like a very expensive cloud. A luxury marshmallow. I am intimidated by your comfort levels. I feel like I should be offering you a cucumber water and a non-disclosure agreement."

He turned, grabbing his own swim trunks from his suitcase. He shimmied into them quickly, hopping on one foot to get his balance—a movement that was decidedly not cool—then grabbed the matching hotel robe.

He shrugged it on, popping the collar and tying the belt with a sharp, dramatic knot like he was a karate master preparing for a bout in the dojo.

"Alright," he said, turning back to her and giving a solemn nod. "The Fellowship of the Ring is assembled. We have the robes. We have the sheer will. We have the silica appointment."

He walked over to her, sliding his hands into the deep pockets of his robe and leaning down. He crowded her space just a little, enjoying the way she looked up at him, before pressing a quick, hard kiss to her mouth—minty and fresh and promising.

"But just so we're clear," he murmured against her lips, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I have done my research. That water is warm, but the air is technically classified as 'Arctic.' And I have zero thermal regulation. I am a lizard, Cleo."

He pulled back, grinning.

"If I get cold, I am climbing onto your back like a koala. I have zero shame. I will use you as a human raft. I will cling. It won’t be dignified, but it will be necessary for my survival."

He stepped back, grabbing the room key card from the dresser and bowing grandly toward the door, sweeping his arm wide.

"After you, my lady. Let’s go get muddy."

Cleo caught his reflection watching her in the mirror and smiled to herself, small and private, as she finished rinsing her mouth.

“Hey,” she said lightly when he echoed official human, eyes meeting his in the glass. “That raccoon look was earned. It told a story.” She tilted her head, amused. “Very underground. Very I survived the night.”

When he rested his chin on her head, she leaned into it instinctively, her hands braced on the counter. “Indie sleaze album cover,” she repeated, laughing softly. “You say that like it wasn’t intentional.”

She stepped out to change, and when she came back in the robe—fluffy, oversized, tied just loose enough to be comfortable—she watched his face shift into that exaggerated admiration and couldn’t help the grin that spread across hers.

“Luxury marshmallow?” she said, glancing down at herself. “I’ll take it. I feel extremely plush.” She smoothed the robe sleeves with mock seriousness. “And yes, cucumber water would be appropriate. Sparkling, preferably.”

As he hopped into his trunks, she laughed openly now, leaning back against the counter. “Oh, very graceful,” she teased. “Really commanding the room.”

When he popped his robe collar and declared the fellowship assembled, she lifted an imaginary sword. “I accept my quest,” she said solemnly. “I will not be swayed by cold or mud or robe theft.”

He crowded her space and kissed her, and she kissed him back without hesitation—brief, sure, smiling against his mouth.

At his koala warning, she laughed, shaking her head. “First of all, you are not a lizard,” she said. “Second of all, if you climb me like a human raft in public, I will never let you live it down.” Her eyes softened. “But fine. I’ll save you. For survival reasons only.”

She adjusted her robe belt, then stepped toward the door as he bowed. Pausing just long enough to look back at him, she smiled—warm, grounded, exactly where she wanted to be.

“Lead the way,” she said. “Let’s go get muddy.”

Cleo stepped into the hallway first, the cool air brushing her bare calves beneath the robe and making her laugh softly under her breath. She pulled the robe a little tighter—not out of modesty, just instinct—and glanced back at him as the door clicked shut behind them.

“Okay,” she said quietly, voice already dropping into that hushed, shared tone reserved for hotel corridors and early mornings. “I will admit… I am slightly concerned about your lizard physiology.”

She padded along the carpet, slippers whisper-quiet, then reached back without looking until her fingers found his hand. She laced their fingers together, grounding, easy.

“But,” she added, a small smile curling at the corner of her mouth, “I’m prepared to be brave. For science. And for you.”

The elevator ride down was slow and quiet, just the soft hum of movement and their reflections in the mirrored walls—two people wrapped in white robes, hair still damp and sleepy, looking more like they’d lived together for years than guests passing through.

She caught his eye in the mirror and smiled, the kind that didn’t need words.

“This,” she said softly, nodding at their reflection, “is exactly what I meant earlier.” A pause. “No audience. No expectations. Just us stealing warmth and pretending the world doesn’t exist yet.”

When the doors opened and the scent of minerals and steam drifted toward them, she squeezed his hand once.

“Alright,” she murmured, eyes bright now, anticipation settling in. “Lagoon time.”

She leaned in closer as they walked, shoulder brushing his. “And if you cling to me like a koala,” she added lightly, “I promise I’ll only tease you a little.”

Cleo felt it the moment they turned the corner—the subtle shift from public quiet to managed quiet. Fewer voices. Softer footsteps. A staff member who smiled a little too knowingly and nodded before Ben even said a word.

“Oh,” she murmured under her breath, glancing up at him. “We’re doing that entrance.”

She didn’t pull her hand away, though. If anything, her fingers tightened around his, grounding herself as the attendant stepped aside and gestured them toward a narrow path marked PRIVATE ACCESS.

Cleo caught the look—polite, practiced, reverent—and let out a small, amused breath. “I always forget,” she said softly, leaning in toward Ben as they walked. “You exist in a slightly different lane than the rest of us.”

The path opened into the lagoon’s VIP enclave: steam rising in gentle curls, stone walls that blocked out the rest of the world, water glowing a deeper blue-green here, quieter, calmer. No crowd. No chatter. Just the low hush of minerals and warmth.

She stopped for a second, taking it in.

“Okay,” she admitted quietly. “This is… really nice.”

She glanced sideways at him, her smile warm but a little bashful. “I promise I’m not here because of that,” she added, tapping their joined hands lightly. “But I’m also not mad about it.”

She stepped closer to the water’s edge, the steam curling around her ankles, robe brushing her calves. The quiet wrapped around them like a held breath.

“This feels like cheating,” she said, half-laughing. “Like we skipped a level.”

Then, softer—more honest—she added, “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

She looked back at him, eyes bright, already warm just thinking about the water.

“And for the record,” she said, teasing now, “if you cling to me in here, no one important will see. That’s the real VIP perk.”

Ben squeezed her hand as they navigated the stone path, the steam rising around them like a curtain being drawn shut.

"Listen," he whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed her ear. "I didn't invent the lane. I just merge into it aggressively when I need to. And today? I needed to."

He watched her take in the private enclave—the milky blue water, the moss-covered lava rocks, the silence that felt heavy and expensive. When she said it felt like cheating, he laughed, a low sound that vibrated in his chest.

"It is cheating," he agreed cheerfully. "It’s a cheat code. But considering I spent the last three months sleeping on a bus that smelled exclusively of dry shampoo and diesel, I feel like the universe owes me this. And by extension, it owes you."

He stopped at the edge of the water where a set of wooden hooks waited for their robes. He turned to face her, his expression softening as she thanked him.

"Cleo," he said, reaching out to tuck a damp curl behind her ear. "You don't have to thank me. Honestly? The only reason this is cool is because you're standing in it. Otherwise, it’s just hot soup and silence."

He looked at the water, then back at the freezing Icelandic air nipping at his exposed ankles.

"Okay," he announced, steeling himself. "This is the worst part. The transition. It’s going to be violent. It’s going to be disrespectful to my biology."

He looked at her with wide, serious eyes.

"On three. Robes off. We run—dignified running, but fast—into the water. Do not hesitate. Hesitation is death."

He didn't wait for a count. He shucked his robe in one fluid motion, hanging it up with shaking hands as the arctic air hit his bare skin. He let out a sharp, high-pitched yelp that was entirely uncool.

"Go, go, go!" he hissed, ushering her toward the steps.

He followed her in, the water accepting them instantly. The heat was a shock to the system, enveloping his freezing limbs in a thick, mineral-rich embrace. He sank down to his chin immediately, letting out a long, groaning sigh of pure ecstasy.

"Okay," he breathed, the steam swirling around his face. "We survived. I can feel my toes again."

He looked over at Cleo, her skin flushed from the heat, the water lapping at her shoulders. She looked ethereal in the mist, like a siren who had lured him into the deep end.

He paddled over to her, closing the distance until he was invading her personal space.

"And regarding the VIP perk..."

He grinned, that boyish, mischievous look returning.

"You said no one important would see."

He didn't climb on her back—he wasn't that cruel—but he did wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him underwater. He hooked one leg around hers, anchoring them together, effectively becoming the barnacle he’d promised to be.

"I am a tropical creature," he murmured, resting his wet chin on her shoulder, closing his eyes against the steam. "I require body heat. It’s for science."

He kissed the side of her neck, wet and warm.

"Also," he whispered, gesturing vaguely toward a wooden box on the edge of the deck filled with white silica paste. "The mud awaits. I’m ready to make you look like a ghost. It’s very romantic."

Cleo laughed as he leaned in to whisper, the sound soft and breathy, almost swallowed by the steam curling around them.

“Aggressively merging tracks,” she murmured back, eyes warm. “That checks out. Very on brand.”

When he called it cheating, she smiled, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “I think you’ve earned the cheat code,” she said gently. “Bus karma alone justifies it.” She glanced around the quiet enclave again, then back at him. “And I’m not arguing with the universe when it decides to be generous.”

At the edge of the water, when he tucked her curl back and told her she didn’t have to thank him, her expression softened in a way that felt unguarded.

“Well,” she said quietly, “hot soup and silence is still pretty great.” Her lips curved. “But yeah… it’s better with us.”

When he announced the transition like a battle plan, her eyes widened, amused. “Violent?” she repeated. “Disrespectful to your biology?” She laughed, already bracing herself. “You’re really selling this.”

Then he dropped the robe and yelped, and she burst out laughing.

“Oh my god,” she said, hurrying after him. “You said dignified!”

The heat of the water wrapped around her instantly, a full-body sigh escaping her as she sank in. “Okay,” she breathed. “Worth it. Absolutely worth it.”

She turned just in time to see him drifting closer, steam clinging to his hair, that familiar grin already forming.

At his reminder about the VIP perk, she raised a brow. “I did say that,” she replied lightly. “I stand by my words.”

When his arms slid around her waist underwater and he hooked his leg around hers, she laughed again, this time softer, more surprised, hands coming up instinctively to rest on his forearms.

“So this is the barnacle phase,” she said, amused. “I should’ve known.”

She tilted her head slightly when he rested his chin on her shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for a second at the warmth and the closeness. “For science,” she echoed, smiling. “Of course.”

At the kiss to her neck, she let out a quiet breath, leaning back into him without thinking.

“And the mud,” she added, glancing toward the box he gestured at. “You’re very excited about this.” She laughed, turning her head just enough to look at him. “Fine. Make me a ghost. But if I look terrifying, I’m blaming the minerals.”

She reached back and squeezed his arm once, anchoring them together.

“Honestly,” she said softly, steam swirling around them, “this might be my favorite cheat code yet.”

Cleo eyed the wooden box of silica mud like it had personally challenged her.

“Oh, I absolutely get first rights,” she said, slipping one arm free from his barnacle hold just long enough to scoop a cool handful of the paste. “You do not get to turn me into a ghost without consequences.”

She turned toward him in the water, the steam curling around them as she lifted her hand. “Hold still,” she warned lightly, already smiling. “This is a delicate process. Very technical.”

She dabbed the mud onto his cheek first, slow and deliberate, her fingers cool against his warm skin. Then another streak along his jaw. She traced it up the bridge of his nose, laughing quietly as she worked, the contrast between the mineral paste and his expression far more charming than intimidating.

“There,” she murmured, studying her work with mock seriousness. “You look very enlightened. Like you just emerged from a mountain with forbidden knowledge.”

She added one last gentle swipe across his forehead, smoothing it out with her thumb, then let her hand fall away. For a second, she just looked at him—mud-smeared, steam-softened, eyes bright and familiar—and something in her expression shifted from playful to tender.

“Okay,” she said softly. “That’s enough science for now.”

She leaned in, closing the small distance between them, and kissed him—slow and warm and easy. It wasn’t rushed or hungry; it was the kind of kiss that lingered, that said this is good without needing to explain why.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested briefly against his, a small smile still on her lips.

“Your turn,” she added quietly. “But be nice.”