Draw a bath for Cherie

The master suite is silent, save for the heavy, rhythmic breathing of Chad, who has retreated into the safety of sleep. Cherie sits at her small writing desk, her pen hovering over her journal, her body still tight with the hum of unspent energy and the stinging resentment of her husband’s failure.

You drift into the en-suite bathroom. With a focused exert of your Essence, you manipulate the plumbing. The heavy brass taps turn with a silent, spectral grace, and a stream of steaming water begins to fill the porcelain basin. You nudge the bottle of expensive, lavender-scented bath oil on the counter, causing a generous pour to swirl into the rising heat, creating a thick, frothy mountain of bubbles that smells of calm and sanctuary.

Cherie hears the sudden, steady rush of water. She freezes at her desk, her heart leaping into her throat. She knows Chad is asleep. She knows she didn't turn on the bath.

She stands, her silk robe rustling, and walks slowly toward the bathroom door. She sees the steam billowing out into the bedroom, smelling of the lavender she only uses on special occasions. She stands in the doorway, staring at the tub—filled to the brim with perfect, hot water and a cloud of white foam.

He did this. Not Chad... him. Mack. He knows. He saw what happened in that bed and he knows how much my skin is still crawling. It’s... it’s so inappropriate. I should drain it. I should go to sleep. But God, the heat... I can feel it from here. It’s like he’s offering me an apology. Or an invitation.

The allure of the heat is too much for her frazzled nerves. She drops her robe and sinks into the water. She lets out a long, shaky exhale as the heat pierces through the tension in her muscles.