Part II

Chapter 2

Sandi

“I’ll help you,” Sandi murmurs.

She does — her hands soft, kindness in the way she peels my dress away. The moment my breasts are free I hear her breath change. I close my eyes, breathing in the steamy hush, pulse still thrumming with gold and fear and the old ache for freedom.

Outside, footsteps fade. Tarmo’s voice carries on the wind — a reminder that for all my resistance, some tides are hard to unmake.

Steam coils around us as I step under the weak but scalding spray, the tent’s thin walls muting the world to a hush. Sandi enters a moment later, letting her clothes slip away in slow, deliberate grace. Her eyes linger on me, hungry, lips curving in a knowing line.

She steps behind me, hands smooth and confident. The brush of her breasts at my back before she presses closer, the heat of her skin doubling the water’s warmth. Her palms glide down, gathering soap, and then she begins — gentle at first — working lather over my shoulders, down my arms, circling my belly where the residue of gold has dried and dulled, sliding down to the nerve that is never entirely quiet. The slick heat of her presses against my thigh. My body answers — clit throbbing in time with my heartbeat, the ache immediate and honest.

The world narrows to her touch, slow and reverent. Her mouth at my neck, hands on my breasts, a moan that stirs something restless in me. Her breath hot against my damp hair — then she spins me to face her, searching my eyes for permission.

Water beads on her lashes. Her hands spread slippery suds across my belly, sliding between us, exploring. She leans in, lips grazing my ear — a secret, a plea — then nuzzles down my jawline to suck my nipples, savouring my trembling.

I close my eyes and surrender, not altogether unwilling, to the press of her thigh against mine, the soft sliding of our hips. For a heartbeat our bodies remember Yerevan: summer night, open windows, the reckless intimacy of two fugitives. Her kiss comes — slow at first, almost reverent, building heat. Her tongue finds mine, hands gripping my waist, pulling me nearer.

But as our bodies entwine a cold edge forms at my heart’s centre — regret, or maybe just the ache of moving forward. I pull back gently, pressing my forehead to hers, letting the water hide my tears.

“Sandi,” I whisper, voice thick. “Some things must stay in the past. They live there, not here. There’s a reason for periods and stations in life.”

She hesitates, hope flickering. Her hand slides to my cheek, thumb tracing wet skin, searching for the old answer. I let her kiss me — soft, slow, almost desperate — but my lips don’t answer the way they once did.

The moment lingers, fragrant and raw, then ebbs. The need dims between us, replaced by understanding, by the tenderness of a goodbye spoken without words.

“I wanted to remember,” she murmurs, pulling away at last. “To feel that high, that connection.”

“So did I.” My breath shakes. “But I can’t live in yesterday, Sandi. Not anymore.”

The water pounds down, streaking the gold from my skin, replacing longing with the pulse of something new — loss, yes, but also the bare, honest possibility of what comes next.

I.Ph.