The water was warm. Too warm.
The kind of warmth that seeped into muscle and marrow, clawing the bones from beneath the skin until the body felt reborn. Mikhail lounged there, neck tilted against the porcelain edge, pink hair soaked and plastered to his face as wisps of steam curled lazily into the air above him.
Foam clung to his arms. Bubbles drifted across the surface like lazy ghosts, shifting with every subtle movement. The bath smelled faintly of lavender and something else — something old. Like dusted pages and silk.
He hated how good it felt.
"Damn this place," he muttered to no one in particular, dragging a hand across his chest and flicking water toward the tiled wall. "Haunted halls. Secret tea trays. Pretty boys pretending to be gods. And yet—" he leaned back again with a groan, "—they have the best damn baths I've ever set foot in."
