They must be on the inside.
I wrench the door open and rush in, sighing as the warm steam kisses my skin. I yank the door shut to stop any more from escaping before I can figure out how to get it turned back on.
But that might not matter. The steam is actually still thick and hot, and the small, dimly glowing gold light coming from a spot near the floor only makes it harder to see through. There's no hope I'll find the controls until it dissipates some more.
Feeling along the slippery tiled bench, I push toward the back of the small room, where the steam is warmer and denser, sighing as I fold myself onto the seat in the dark.
I lean into the wall and tip my head back, letting the steam unwind some of the tension in my body.
"Don't freak out."
"Fuck, Atticus!"
"Sorry." His voice comes from the steam somewhere to my right. "Should've said something when you first came in. I was about to leave anyway."
"What are you even doing out here in the dark? Does this thing not have a light?"
"It does. I prefer it dark."
The steam shifts as he stands.
"Wait," I snap, seeing my shot and grabbing it before I change my mind. "Can you stay?"
The steam swirls, and I can see the shadow of him through it as he stands still at its center. "You want me to stay?"
It's hard to swallow. "Yes. I need to…" My stomach churns. "I need to talk to you."
A wave of heat rushes over me as he sits back down, and a hissing sound fills the room as more steam is pumped in from a vent somewhere above us.
Does it make me more of a coward that I'm glad he can't see my face?
"If this is about dinner the other night, I should've dropped it when you asked me t?—"
"It's not."
An ache forms in my chest, and I need to get this out before I explode from holding it in. Before he can say anything else that might make it harder to tell him.
"Ambrose is my father."
The words linger in the air between us like poison, and I grip the edge of the tile seat until my fingers hurt, waiting for him to say something. I can sense that his mind is already running new calculations, adjusting variables and recalibrating every risk assessment he’s made.
"Do you mean…"
The dead monotone he speaks in makes my skin prick despite the heat.
"I mean, he's really my father."
My eyes burn, and I bite down hard on my cheek to quell the emotion. "He told me at lunch."
"Aurora, I'm not following. We forged the test. Whatever he told you?—"
"Tests," I correct, trying to quiet my voice and erase the wobble in it. "He didn't just do the one you knew about. He did two. One at the regular facility and another one…at a different place. I thought he was lying, but I made him show me the results he got by email."
His silence is deafening.
"Atticus?"
"I'm thinking."
