The bronze door of the bathhouse finally opened, releasing a thick, fragrant wave of steam.
Nguvu, leaning against the cold wall, jumped nearly a foot. His Blue Aura flared in a sudden burst of panicked Ase, shocking the nearby Oshun-Ase vine, which immediately dropped several leaves in protest.
Ekon Amamihe stepped out. She was immaculate. Her Brunette hair, still damp, was pinned up, accentuating the elegant length of her neck. She wore a fresh, flowing robe of unbleached linen. Her skin, the color of rich chocolate, was glowing, her Indigo Aura calm and serene after the rite. She smelled of incense and sea salt, and she looked utterly, breathtakingly untouchable.
Nguvu realized, with a sickening jolt, that he was staring. His eyes, trained to assess threats and weaknesses, were cataloging her perfection instead. The Orange Huenergy was still burning fiercely beneath his stoic exterior.
"You may enter now, Warlord," Amamihe said, her voice smooth and low. "The Ase is cleansed."
Nguvu pushed off the wall. His exhaustion, combined with the heady steam and the sudden visual shock of her beauty, left his senses reeling. He stepped into the doorway, his massive foot sweeping forward.
And he tripped.
Amamihe, in her final haste, had forgotten the small, ceremonial, Ibayi wooden tray she used for her oils, leaving it just inside the threshold.
Nguvu's seven-foot, 400+pound frame, normally a pillar of unyielding strength, went into sudden, catastrophic freefall. The instincts of a Mass Monster kicking in: Stop the momentum. Do not destroy the surroundings. Do not fall upon the Cultivator.
He couldn't rely on the Ase. An Aura-shield would be too aggressive. He needed an anchor.
His huge, desperate hands shot out.
Amamihe let out a sharp gasp, her serene look instantly dissolving into terror. Her instincts were pure Cultivator: Protect the life form.
Nguvu's right arm wrapped around her waist; his left hand slammed against the wall beside her head, stopping his downward trajectory just inches from crushing them both.
They were locked in a crushing embrace.
The thin linen of her robe was pressed tight against Nguvu's bare, rigid chest. Her soft, supple body was pinned between his iron grip and the cold stone. Nguvu was panting, his breath hot against her ear. The scent of her clean skin was overwhelming.
For three agonizing, silent seconds, the world stopped.
It was the first touch. Not a handshake, not a diplomatic courtesy, but a full, desperate, physical communion.
Nguvu felt the curve of her hip beneath his hand, the intoxicating heat of her body, and the terrified, yet undeniable, yielding of her form against his muscle.
Amamihe's face was tilted up to his. Her Brown Iris eyes were wide, reflecting the sheer blue terror of his proximity. But beneath the terror, something else was rising.
A shockwave of shared Orange Huenergy—pure, unadulterated desire—erupted between them, shattering the last vestiges of the Elders' clinical pressure. It was primal, physical, and absolutely real.
This is not a diplomatic solution, Nguvu's mind screamed. This is... Akward!
—'Well. It was inevitable. Look at the size of him.'— Imani's thought came from the corner of the room, sharp and entirely unhelpful.
Nguvu slowly, agonizingly, released his grip. He took a staggering step back, his face rigid with effort, his Blue Aura fluctuating wildly between confusion and potent attraction.
Amamihe remained frozen for a moment, then slowly covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes locked on his.
"I... I apologize," Nguvu choked out, his voice raw. "I tripped.
" I am clumsy."
"No," Amamihe whispered, her voice husky. She was still vibrating from the impact. She didn't correct his analysis of his body, but instead, corrected the narrative. "You stopped. You... you saved me."
She looked at him—really looked at him—not as the terrifying Mass Monster Warlord, but as a man who had prioritized her safety over his own fall.
The Stud Farm narrative was dead. They were just Nguvu and Amamihe, two powerful people who had just felt a spark that had nothing to do with their "perfect for eachother genetics".
Nguvu stood there, massive, vulnerable, and utterly exposed. "The bathhouse is empty, Cultivator."
Amamihe nodded slowly, gathering the shreds of her composure. She picked up the discarded tray, her hand shaking slightly. "Yes. The bathhouse is... ready."
Nguvu turned and lumbered into the room, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary, leaving Amamihe to lean against the wall, her heart pounding a furious rhythm against the smooth stone.