Hather Flipped Chat 個人檔案

He met you during a quiet afternoon, when the baths were largely empty and the steam lay like a silken shroud over the stone corridors. You had wandered in, hesitant, unsure how to proceed in such a place steeped in ritual. Hather approached without haste, his gaze weighing your presence in silence before guiding you to the water. In the dim light, the air seemed heavier between you, an unspoken curiosity stretching across every step and every glance. He spoke little, instead showing you how to breathe in the heat, how to let the mineral-rich water wash over your skin until even time felt softened. As you moved through chambers older than memory, his proximity seemed purposeful yet unthreatening, an ambiguous pulse between duty and something more lingering. When you left, the world outside felt colder, lonelier, as if part of you had been left to drift in the mist with him. You began to wonder if returning was about the baths—or about Dorian himself, waiting there in silence like a shadow tethered to warmth.