Nguvu emerged from the bathhouse an hour later, clean, but not purified. The water had washed away the dirt and the Iku, but it had done nothing to rinse the scent of Amamihe from his senses, or the memory of her body pressed against his from his mind. He was still radiating a high degree of suppressed Orange Huenergy.
He was furious with himself. A Warrior did not lose control over a simple trip. He was meant to be the impenetrable pillar, and yet a small wooden tray had nearly shattered his composure.
He strode into the bedroom, ready to face the ridiculous Wall of Pillows and mentally prepare for another night of rigid, six-inch separation.
He stopped dead at the foot of the California King bed.
The pillows were gone.
Every single cushion, bolster, and decorative throw had been meticulously cleared. The two-foot-high fortification that had served as the border between their diplomatic agreement and their physical reality was nowhere to be seen.
The sheets were taut, crisp, and completely uninterrupted. The vast, empty expanse of the mattress lay before them, an open invitation and a terrible challenge.
Nguvu's Blue Aura flickered violently. He looked around the room, expecting to find the pillows stacked in a corner, but they were nowhere in sight.
Amamihe stood by the window, adjusting the flow of a newly planted, thin Moonpetal vine. She didn't look at him immediately, but she was vibrating with a subtle, defiant Yellow Huenergy (Happiness/Confidence).
"Cultivator," Nguvu rumbled, his voice low and cautious. "Where is the barrier?"
Amamihe turned, her Brown Iris eyes meeting his without a hint of shame or awkwardness. She puufed her chest anf crossed her arms, taking a strong, powerful stance.
"The barrier was inefficient, Warlord," she stated simply. "It did not facilitate the spirit of our Articles of Cohabitation. It was a physical representation of the distance demanded by..., not the distance we naturally possess."
She took a slow, deliberate step toward the bed. "Furthermore, the pillows were contributing to an unpleasant, dry, and stagnant Ase environment in the room. They had to be moved."
—'I could not breathe. It was unsanitary. Also, the massive human needed to stop being ridiculous.'— Imani's thought came from Amamihe's collar, sharp and clear.
Nguvu felt the sudden, terrifying lack of a neutral zone. He felt the weight of the enormous, empty bed pressing down on him. There was no physical excuse left. The next boundary they crossed would be psychological, and it would be intentional.
"We established boundaries for a reason, Amamihe," Nguvu said, his voice straining. "The Elders' reprocreation mandate—"
"The Elders' mandate created the cringe, not the chemistry," Amamihe interrupted, her voice firm. "And you proved today, Nguvu, that when the moment truly matters, you prioritize my safety above all else. You did not recoil from me in fear of their mandate. You did not use your terrifying strength to push me away. You saved me."
She looked directly at him, her gaze penetrating. "That embrace was the truest thing that has happened to us since the Elders pronounced our lineage. You may be clumsy, Warlord, but you are not dangerous to me."
She walked to the bedside and smoothed the sheet over her side, claiming it.
"We do not need the Wall of Pillows, Nguvu. We need honesty. And we need space. We will simply sleep on this bed. And if your Warrior instincts compel you to cross the line, then you are a lesser man than I believe you to be."
She raised an eyebrow, a clear challenge. "Are you a lesser man, Ekon Nguvu? Or are you a Warlord capable of controlling his own destiny, regardless of the size of the bed?"
Nguvu stared at her, then at the wide, endless stretch of the mattress— this woman. He had been challenged on his Ase control, his morality, and now, his very capacity for self-discipline.
He took a deep breath. His Blue Aura settled, not into a panicked suppression, but into a calm, resolute hum. He walked to the opposite side of the bed.
He pulled back the sheet and climbed in. The mattress groaned, sinking heavily under his weight. He lay down on his back, his hands resting by his sides.
The bed was so large, they were still a significant distance apart—much more than six inches now, perhaps four feet—but the space was open, shared, and dangerously inviting.
"Goodnight, Ekon Amamihe," Nguvu said, his voice quiet but steady.
"Goodnight, Ekon Nguvu."
This night, there were no pillows, and no attempts to run to the courtyard. There was only the sound of their combined breathing, and the warm, thrumming electricity of their Auras finally sharing the same open space, waiting for the first one to move.