The bathroom door clicked shut behind us, sealing the world out with a soft, final thud that echoed in the humid silence.
Steam already billowed from the glass-walled shower, thick and white, curling like incense from the rain-head hissing high above, hot water drumming the black marble floor in rhythmic, primal pulses —thump-thump-thump— like a heartbeat beneath the earth, vibrating up through my bare feet.
The mirror was completely fogged, edges dripping in slow, silver tears that traced down the glass, lights dimmed to a golden haze that turned the room into a sacred, steamy cave, shadows dancing on the wet walls.
The scent was overwhelming: vanilla, musk, sex, soap, and now—something new—sweet, creamy, divine, still lingering from the dream-milk that had haunted me awake, coating the back of my throat like liquid memory.
