V. The First Temptation

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The light was steady now. 

No longer pulsing.

 

He didn’t hear the door open. 

She was just there. 

 

No knock. No footsteps. No tray of food or folded towel. Just the soft shuffle of bare feet on tile, and the faint scent of rose and sandalwood.

 

She stood in the doorway for a moment, as if deciding whether to speak. Then stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

 

“I brought this,” she said, holding up a bowl of water and a clean cloth. 

 

Her voice was soft but grounded—neither shy nor forward.

 

Nico said nothing.

 

“I thought you might want to clean up.”

 

He nodded once.

 

She set the bowl on the table, dipped the cloth, and wrung it out slowly, precisely, like it mattered. Then held out her hand.

 

“May I?”

 

He hesitated. 

Then gave her his hand.

 

Her touch was careful. 

Not clinical. Not flirtatious. Just deliberate.

 

She wiped the dust from his knuckles, under his nails, along the creases of his palm. 

 

She took her time.

 

“You’ve come a long way,” she said.

 

Still, he didn’t speak.

 

She looked up. Her eyes were darker than he expected. Not sad, but seasoned. 

 

As if she’d watched too many people make the same mistake.

 

“You’re not like the others,” she said.

 

“The others?”

 

“They all come looking for something. 

You’re the first I’ve seen who already knows what he doesn’t want.”

 

He pulled his hand back gently.

 

She didn’t resist.

 

Instead, she soaked the cloth again and reached up—slowly—touching it to his forehead, then his cheeks, his jawline. 

 

Her fingers brushed the edge of his hair.

 

“You can rest here,” she said. “You don’t have to carry all that.”

 

Her voice had changed. 

Softer now. 

Closer.

 

He felt the warmth of her breath near his cheek.

 

Then her hand found his knee.

 

Something in him stirred. 

Not lust. Not yet. Just memory. 

 

Of being held once, long ago, in the crook of someone’s arm. 

Of a lullaby sung without words. 

Of touch not as desire, but as shelter.

 

She leaned in slightly—not forceful, but sure. 

Her other hand moved to his shoulder, then paused—waiting, almost asking.

 

Her scent was stronger now. 

Not perfume. 

Something warm. Human. Living.

 

She brushed his hair back from his forehead, and for a moment, he imagined what would happen if he leaned in. 

 

If he let the warmth take over. 

If he stopped asking, and just accepted what was being offered.

 

He looked into her face. 

It was kind. 

Too kind. 

 

As if it had been worn smooth from being offered too often.

 

“No,” he said quietly. 

“I’m not here for comfort.”

 

Her hand lingered on his shoulder a moment longer—then withdrew. 

 

She didn’t step back right away. Just stood in front of him, searching his face.

 

“You think that makes you strong?” she asked, her voice no longer soft.

 

He didn’t answer.

 

She tilted her head, almost pitying. “It doesn’t. It makes you alone.”

 

Still, he said nothing.

 

The warmth between them evaporated, replaced by something colder. 

 

She picked up the bowl slowly, as if each motion were a test of whether he’d call her back.

 

He didn’t.

 

She walked to the door, then paused—half-turned.

 

“You’ll wish you had taken something with you,” she said.

 

But her voice had changed again. 

 

No longer inviting. 

No longer sad. 

 

Now it sounded like a warning.

 

Then she left, and the door clicked softly behind her.

 

The silence that followed was thicker than before.

 

Nico sat still, as if the echo of her warmth still hovered in the air.

 

The chair. The table. The cot. 

Everything was as it had been.

 

But something in the room had shifted. 

As if it had opened and closed a door he hadn’t seen.

 

He exhaled slowly. 

Let his palms rest on his knees.

 

He didn’t feel victorious. 

Only more awake.

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Continue to Part VI: The Second Temptation

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