The bed was wide, the linen cool beneath Camille’s damp robe. She y tense on her back, every muscle taut, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as if daring it to press back. Celeste’s absence lingered like a bruise — deliberate, cutting.

  Marisol hadn’t left. She sat at the edge of the bed, watching in silence until the quiet grew unbearable.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Camille muttered, voice hoarse from the steam.

  “I know,” Marisol said softly. She reached forward, smoothing wet strands of hair away from Camille’s temple. Her touch was careful, slow. “But I want to.”

  Camille’s chest tightened. She should have pulled away. Instead, she stilled, every breath measured.

  Marisol leaned closer, her voice low, coaxing.

  “You’ve carried crowns and battles, but here—now—you can put them down. Even for a moment.”

  Her fingers traced lower, brushing along Camille’s neck, pausing at her colrbone before retreating as if she hadn’t lingered there on purpose.

  Camille swallowed, throat dry.

  Marisol eased further onto the bed, her weight shifting the mattress, closing the space between them. She y at Camille’s side, not crowding, but not leaving distance either. Her hand came to rest lightly across Camille’s waist, palm warm through the damp robe.

  “You’re trembling,” Marisol whispered. “Let me hold it for you.”

  Camille wanted to resist, but the warmth settled over her like a tether. Her body stayed taut, but she didn’t move away.

  A silence stretched, broken only by the sound of their breathing. Then Marisol pressed her lips gently to Camille’s temple. Not hunger, not conquest — but it sank deep, unmistakably physical.

  Camille’s breath caught. She kept her eyes shut.

  Marisol kissed her again, lower this time, at the slope of her shoulder where robe and skin met.

  “Sleep,” she murmured. “I’ll keep watch.”

  Camille exhaled, long and uneven. The comfort soothed, even as a part of her mind whispered trap. She knew this closeness was no gift — it was a hook. But she couldn’t push it away.

  Marisol’s hand remained firm at her waist, her presence steady, her kisses soft.

  And in that quiet, Camille finally let her body ease — not in trust, not in love, but in the silken snare Marisol had id for her.