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“You know what?” she said, glancing back at him. “Never mind. Judge me. It was a breakup year, and she got me through it.”

He looked at the name, and a thought snapped into place with merciless clarity—someone had broken her. Not just disappointed or walked away, but carved a silence into her loudness. His rage reacted first, dark and brutal, already building the bones of revenge with nothing but a name. His lust followed, sharper and more primal, whispering how best to reclaim her joy—through pleasure, through possession, through the kind of relentless devotion that leaves no room for ghosts. Even though he didn’t speak, she clearly heard something in the quiet.

“Music sees what we can’t say,” she said, her voice soft, almost quiet. “And I need it loud, or I forget how to move.”

She stood and turned the volume knob on the player. The record hissed for a second before resuming, louder now—like it was reclaiming the room. She turned in a slow circle with her arms raised to the ceiling, moving her fingers through the notes as though they were tangible threads.

Kaos watched. Her joy wasn’t performative, it wasn’t aimed at him, it just existed whether he was there or not. And that made it sharper somehow.

She began dancing—nothing graceful—her movements raw instinct. A battle between rhythm and memory. She laughed. She twirled. She bumped into a chair and apologized to it. Then she grabbed his hand. “Your turn.”

She grinned and backed up a few steps, narrowing her eyes at him with challenge glittering in every line of her body. She pulled him in and spun herself around him like she was orbiting gravity. Her grip was firm, her breath fast. She tried to step on his foot, missed, and cursed.

“I was going to win that.”

“You were not,” he replied, his pulse raging.

She laughed again and released him, spinning away with her hands flung out, then suddenly pivoted. “Let’s see how good your instincts are,” she challenged. Without giving him time to respond, she sprinted straight at him like a missile of chaos and trust. Five feet out, she jumped in a reckless, swan-dive arc.

Kaos moved fast, catching her by the waist midair and lifting her above his head. She squealed with delight, limbs flailing as he spun her once, then again.

“I’m flying!” she screamed.

He lowered her slowly, setting her feet back on the floor, but she stumbled as the room tilted beneath her. He caught her again—this time gently, steadying her with hands that never wanted to let go. She laughed breathlessly and threw her arms around him in a hug that was fierce and full of sunshine. Then she darted off toward the next thing, already chasing a new thread of chaos like the day hadn’t even peaked yet.

She made him part of her rhythm and his pulse hadn’t stopped dancing from it. His Lust collected every act and gesture and his Rage created a shrine out of it. And Kohl and Kaos knelt before it like slave children waiting for food to fall from their master’s table.

Hour Three: Bubble Rituals

She skidded to a halt near the hallway, eyes lighting up with sudden urgency. “Do you think they stocked it with bubbles?” she asked like it was the most important question inthe world. “Real ones. Not the boring clean kind—something that smells like sin and sparkles when it hits the light.”

She vanished into the bathroom before he could respond. Cabinet doors thudded open. A faucet screeched. Then the unmistakable sound of water rushing into porcelain.

Kaos stood rooted near the hallway, jaw tight. The sound of the tub filling was nothing short of torture—liquid temptation echoing through the walls. His Lust surged, fully alert, imagining her skin slicked and steaming, her curves framed in bubbles and candlelight. His Rage snarled at the thought of anyone who had touched her before he could. She was bathing—in the next room. Naked. Vulnerable. Glorious. And not his. Not in this body. Not yet.

“Hey,” her voice rang out, casual and sweet, just muffled enough to make his pulse jump. “Come sit by the door. I want to talk to you while I soak. No peeking,” she added, sing-song and shameless.

Kaos’s jaw flexed as he approached the bathroom. He sat with his back to it, every muscle drawn tight, every instinct clawing inside him. Steam soon curled from beneath the door, and with it came scent—lavender, citrus, something vanilla-laced and sinful.

He closed his eyes. Her sigh floated through the wood like temptation made audible.

“This might be the happiest I’ve ever been,” she said, voice slow and lazy. “And I’m not even doing anything important. Isn’t that weird?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

“I used to think happiness came after everything got fixed,” she continued. “Like... after the storm passed. But maybe it just sneaks in during the storm if you let it.”

Kaos let his head rest back against the wall. He didn’t trust his voice, so he gave her silence and just listened.

“You’re a really good wall,” she added after a while. “Solid. Quiet. Kind of warm. And terrifying. Just my type. Oh!” she chirped, water sloshing. “You wanna play Ten Questions?”

Kaos tilted his head toward the door. “What is that?”

“I ask you a question, then you ask me one. No thinking. Just first thing that comes to mind. Stop at ten. Deal?”

Questions and answers? “Begin.”

“Okay,” she said brightly. “Question one. What do you want that you think you don’t deserve?”