Tropical vision

As she closes her eyes and leans her head back against the porcelain, you weave the dream around her. The white tile and the hum of the house dissolve.

The steam becomes the humid, salt-tinged air of a Caribbean afternoon. The sound of the plumbing becomes the rhythmic, hypnotic wash of turquoise waves against sugar-white sand. She feels the sun, a warm, golden weight that sinks into her bare skin. She is lying on a plush, oversized towel, the scent of tropical blooms and sea spray filling her lungs.

She is completely alone. Completely safe. Completely exposed.

Then, she hears the soft crunch of sand. You manifest within the vision, walking slowly across the beach. You aren't the predatory Lord from her book or the shadow in the mirror. You are simply Mack. You are wearing dark swim trunks, your muscular form rendered in the soft, flattering light of the setting sun.

You don't say a word. You don't look at her with hunger. You simply spread your own towel a few feet away from hers and lie down. You stare out at the horizon, your presence a steady, grounding anchor in the shimmering heat.

For the first time since moving into this house, Cherie feels the knot in her chest loosen. She looks over at you, her eyes soft and curious. In this space, you aren't a monster or a threat; you are the only person who truly sees her. She reaches out a hand, her fingers brushing the sand between your towels, and then she closes her eyes, finally drifting into a genuine, restorative peace.