The Steam is My Only Sanctuary

They tell you that city life is a marathon of curated smiles and cold porcelain floors, but I prefer my reality in shades of white steam.
The water isn't just hot; it’s an erasure tool for the grime of being perceived by everyone else today. My skin glistens like wet silk—a temporary masterpiece before the world demands I put on a dress again and perform some role involving 'ambition.'

He stands in the doorway, not as a savior or a prince, but as an intruder who knows exactly how to dismantle my defenses with nothing more than a lingering gaze. He doesn't offer flowers; he offers his presence like a heavy blanket on a shivering night.
'You look exhausted,' he says, and I want to scream that exhaustion is the only honest thing left in this city.

But instead, I lean into the warmth of the vapor, letting my eyes flutter shut as his shadow stretches over me. There’s something deliciously cruel about how a bath can be both a sanctuary and an invitation—a soft-focus stage where we trade our armor for skin contact. He doesn't need to heal me; he just needs to witness my surrender in the steam, making sure I know that tonight, being seen is the only kind of magic left.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach