He builds me a bath. Not a metaphor. One minute I’m sulking by the spring, picking leaves from my hair. The next, shadow vines erupt from the ground, weaving a basin into the rocks. Steam rises as the Reaper dips his hand into the water, heating it with a red glow. “Show-off,” I mutter. He flicks a droplet at me. It hits my forehead, warm and startling. “Real mature.” But when he leaves—vanishing into the trees like smoke—I strip fast. The water smells like lavender. *Actual* lavender. How? I sink up to my chin, sighing as the heat unknots my muscles.
