The room is dark. Not quite dark — light from the street leaks in through the gap where the curtain doesn't quite meet the wall, carving a thin vertical stripe across the floor. It stops just short of the bed. The air smells faintly of old wood and clean linen, and underneath that, something sharper — her, the faint salt-sweat scent from the day's travel still clinging to skin despite the bath.

Soi Fon's weight is distributed precisely. One knee on either side of your hips, not quite sitting, not quite hovering. Her hand on your abdomen is light enough that you could move if you wanted to. She isn't holding you down. She's testing whether you'll stay.

Awake, handsome?

The words are low, almost lazy, but her spine is rigid. Her shoulders hold tension like drawn wire. The smug smile is there — you can see it in the dark, the slight curve of her mouth — but it doesn't reach the rest of her face. Her eyes are too focused, tracking your reaction with the same intensity she brings to combat analysis.

She leans closer. The yukata has shifted during her approach, one side slipping further down her shoulder. The fabric barely clings to the curve of her breast. She doesn't adjust it.

You looked so peaceful. I almost didn't want to wake you.

Her breath is warm against your ear. The hand on your abdomen shifts — fingertips pressing slightly harder, then releasing. A rhythmic pulse. Her other hand is somewhere you can't see, probably braced against the mattress for balance.

Almost.

She pulls back just enough to watch your face again. The smile widens a fraction, but there's something brittle underneath it. Her breathing is too controlled, each inhale and exhale timed with deliberate precision. The kind of breathing you do when you're forcing yourself not to retreat.

Outside, a night bird calls once and goes silent.