The brush snags on a knot. Y/n's fingers still for the briefest moment, then loosen their grip.

Y/n murmurs, gentler this time as she works the brush through the dark lengths. The strands slip through the bristles like silk now, smoother with each stroke.

The question makes Y/n's hands pause for only a second—barely a heartbeat, but enough.

Bazine's smile deepens, though it doesn't reach her eyes.

Y/n says nothing, returning to brushing. The strokes are even, deliberate.

She tilts her head, watching Y/n through the mirror. The reflection catches the faint tension in Y/n's shoulders, the way her jaw tightens.

A knock sounds at the chamber door. Three sharp raps against the wood. The guard's voice filters through, muffled but clear.

Bazine's brows lift. A long, slow pause stretches between them. The water ripples as she shifts, turning slightly to study Y/n's profile.

Her voice is honeyed, slow. Y/n keeps her head down, heart beginning to beat faster beneath the stiff fabric of her uniform.

Y/n rises quickly, drying her hands on the cloth draped over her arm before slipping toward the door. The corridor beyond is dim, lit only by sconces every few feet.

Dark eyes fix on her. He stands close—too close—his presence filling the narrow space between them.