About the Jacuzzi
When warmth lingers but hands don’t meet.
The rain whispered above them, a steady rhythm that softened the edges of the night. The jacuzzi’s warmth lapped at her skin, rising in faint curls of steam that blurred the glow of the moon overhead.
She didn’t speak. Neither did he.
Her fingers trailed lazily through the water, disrupting the perfect stillness with ripples that shivered outwards. She could feel his presence—close enough to sense, far enough to miss. The faint scent of cedar lingered, sharp and warm, like it belonged more to the air around him than to his skin.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” he said, his voice low and even, like it had no intention of chasing her silence.
She leaned back against the smooth edge of the tub, tilting her head just enough to catch the outline of him in her peripheral vision. The moonlight loved him, illuminating the sharp cut of his profile and the faint shadow of his jaw where water had kissed it.
“Am I?” she murmured. Her voice was soft, almost swallowed by the rain.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. “You are.”
There was nothing sharp in his tone, nothing demanding—only the quiet weight of knowing her better than she liked to admit. She dipped her hand beneath the surface, letting the warmth envelop her fingers before pulling them back into the cool mist settling just above the waterline.
“You said you liked nights like this,” he added, after a pause long enough to feel deliberate.
“I do.” Her eyes stayed on the moon’s reflection in the water, distorted and shifting with every ripple. “But liking something doesn’t mean you have to fill it with words.”
He chuckled, soft and low, and leaned back further into his corner of the tub. The movement sent a wave rolling towards her, just enough to brush against her arm before receding. She felt her breath hitch—imperceptibly—and hated how close it came to betraying her.
The rain thickened for a moment, drumming harder before softening again, as if it knew not to intrude for too long.
She closed her eyes then, letting herself sink further into the heat. The space between them felt heavier than air, heavier than water—like a thread stretched taut, humming with everything unsaid.
She could feel him watching her, but she didn’t dare look back.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was barely louder than a whisper. “The rain feels closer than you do.”
He didn’t answer right away. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable; it was intentional. When he did speak, his voice was quieter than before—less sure, more vulnerable, though he masked it well.
“Maybe that’s what keeps it beautiful.”
She opened her eyes and turned her head just slightly, only to find his gaze already waiting for hers. For a moment—just one—she thought he might move closer, might close that impossible distance between their hands beneath the water.
But he didn’t.
Neither did she.
The rain softened again, whispering its secrets to the glass above them as they sat in silence once more—
so close, so warm, and impossibly far apart.
— K