Steam still lingered in the chamber, clinging to skin and fabric alike. The robe around Camille’s body sat neatly tied, though not by her own hands. Every step reminded her of that quiet care, the subtle humiliation of being treated like someone unsteady on her feet.

  Celeste fastened her own robe with practiced precision, movements neat and efficient. She never once met Camille’s eyes. When she spoke, the words were meant for Marisol alone.

  “Stay with her. Don’t push. Don’t demand. Just… let things happen.”

  Then she left. No backward gnce. No final word. Only the soft fall of her footsteps fading down the corridor until silence rushed in behind her, heavier than any presence could have been.

  Camille sat at the edge of the bed, spine straight, chin lifted in the posture she had worn like armor for decades. Inside, her chest ached with the sharp, hollow sting of being left behind.

  Marisol lingered nearby, robe still damp at the edges, dark hair clinging to her shoulders. She did not rush forward. She leaned against the carved post of the bed, patient and steady, eyes following Camille with a quiet that unsettled more than any question ever could.

  “This unsettles you,” Marisol whispered at st. Her voice stayed low, even.

  “She walked away, and the silence feels heavier than her presence would have.”

  Camille’s throat tightened. The words struck too close. She looked down at her hands, fingers ced tight in her p.

  “I’m not used to being dismissed.”

  Marisol moved then, slow and deliberate, lowering herself onto the wide bed beside her. The mattress dipped beneath their combined weight. She reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair from Camille’s temple with the lightest touch.

  “No one dismissed you. She left because silence will draw more from you than any question could.”

  Camille’s eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. Silence. Always silence. In it, there was nowhere left to hide.

  Her breath trembled, raw and open for the first time that night. Marisol stayed close but never crowded, her hand smoothing the silk of Camille’s robe across one shoulder. Her voice softened further.

  “You don’t have to speak if you’re not ready. You don’t have to perform either. Just… be here.”

  The words sank deep, deeper than Camille wanted them to. Her body shuddered once, then she let herself lean back against the pillows. The bed felt impossibly wide, its emptiness stark beside her.

  For a long while she stared at the canopy above, lips pressed tight, until the ache in her chest grew unbearable. At st her voice broke the quiet, rough and halting.

  “Don’t just sit there.”

  Marisol turned toward her, waiting.

  Camille swallowed hard, pride warring with need. The word came out barely above a whisper.

  “Lay beside me… please.”

  Marisol did not question. She eased down, stretching out on the bed so their robes brushed, bodies near but never ciming. She reached for nothing, demanded nothing—she simply y there, solid and present as breath.

  Camille exhaled, shaky but real. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to rest in the presence of another without having to bargain for it.

  And Marisol stayed.