Just warmth.
She steps closer, the towel in her hands, and she begins wiping the oil from my shoulders, her touch light and efficient.
And I watch her.
I watch the way her brow furrows in concentration. The way her lips press together as she works. The way her small, human hands move across my stone skin with a tenderness that should not exist in someone so exhausted.
And I feel it again.
That overwhelming, irrational need to protect her.
To provide for her.
To ensure she never has to work this hard again.
She finishes wiping my shoulders and moves to my wings, her touch careful as she cleans the membrane. The towel is soft against the leathery skin, and I feel the warmth of her hands through the fabric.
And then she steps back.
"All done," she says.
The warmth disappears.
The moment she steps away, I feel the cold rushing in to fill the space she left behind. It's not the petrification itself—it's the absence of her presence. The absence of her touch.
The absence of her.
I stand slowly, my wings folding against my back, and I turn to face her.
She is already packing up her supplies, her movements quick and efficient. She does not look at me.
"Same time next week?" she asks.
"Yes."
She nods. "Cool. Try not to turn into a statue before then."
She grabs her bag and heads toward the door.
And I watch her leave.
I watch the door close behind her.
And I stand alone in the sweltering, eucalyptus-scented room, my amber veins glowing softly in the dim orange light.
And I realize, with a cold, uncomfortable certainty, that I am in trouble.
Because I do not just need her touch to ease the stone-lock.
I need her.
And I do not know what to do with that.
Chapter 5: Tamsin
I'm losing my professional detachment.
It's been three weeks since that first session, and I can't pretend anymore that Cyprian is just another client. I can't pretend he's just a geological event with a pulse. I can't pretend I'm not hyperaware of every single detail of his massive body the moment he walks through that door.
