Grace's shower discovery

---Jason---

#Shower discovery

I glance at Grace as she stands in my kitchen, suddenly noticing her hair. The short black strands look matted in places, with what might be small twigs or bits of leaf caught in them. I hadn't really registered it before, but it makes sense—she arrived literally frozen on my doorstep, and I don't think basic hygiene has been our top priority since then.

"Grace?" I ask, trying to sound casual though how exactly you can sound casual about asking another person if they've showered since showing up on you're doorstep isn't something I can think of. "Have you showered today?"

She fixes those intense green eyes on me, her expression unchanging. "What is a shower?"

I blink, momentarily thrown off-balance. Of course she wouldn't know what a shower is. Why would she? From everything she's told me about her world, indoor plumbing probably isn't a thing where she comes from. If possibly anywhere on the planet.

"It's how we clean ourselves here," I explain, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom. "Water comes from a pipe above you, and you stand under it to wash. With soap and shampoo for your hair."

Grace follows my gaze, her hand moving to touch her hair. "Is there a problem with my appearance?"

"No, not a problem, I just—" I stand up, feeling like the world's worst host. "I should have given you a tour of the house right away. Shown you where everything is. I mean, should have done that the first thing I did when I got home and realized the house wasn't burning down."

My words tumble out in a jumbled mess as I try not to imply she's dirty or unkempt. After all, this woman cured my lifelong blindness and could probably drop me with her straightened pinky finger if she felt insulted.

"Your hair has some, uh, debris in it," I explain, gesturing vaguely around my own head. "Nothing major. Just thought you might want to clean up after walking Dawson."

I try not to think about how absurd this situation is—me explaining basic hygiene to an interdimensional warrior woman who probably bathes in mountain streams and fights bears for fun. Or, based on some of her casual comments, possibly eats said bears after the fight's finished.

"I have noticed differences in grooming standards in this world," Grace says with that direct stare that always somehow meets my eyes. "The animals are cleaner. The humans smell of artificial substances."

"Yeah, we're big on soap here," I reply, a nervous laugh escaping before I can stop it. "Come on, I'll show you how everything works before I forget again."

I gesture for her to follow me, and to my relief, she does, rising from the couch with that fluid grace that makes her seem barely bound by gravity. I lead her down the hallway toward the bathroom, hyper-aware of her presence behind me. She moves with eerie silence, her footsteps completely inaudible on the hardwood floors where mine creak with every other step.

"Okay, so this is the living room, obviously," I begin, feeling awkward but pushing through it. "Kitchen through there—you've seen that. Down this hallway is the bathroom. There's a half-bath downstairs too, but this is the main one with the good shower."

I push open the door, revealing the bathroom. "Toilet, sink, shower, towel racks," I point out each item. "You've seen a shower before, right?"

"I have observed the glass box with water dispensers earlier today," Grace confirms. "Though I am unfamiliar with its operation."

Her eyes scan the bathroom with that tactical assessment I'm starting to recognize—noting exits, potential weapons, defensible positions. It's both impressive and vaguely concerning that she can't even look at a bathroom without running some kind of internal threat assessment.

"Right." I step inside, careful not to crowd her. "So this knob controls the water. Left is hot, right is cold. You can adjust it to get the temperature you want." I demonstrate without turning it on. "This lever makes the water come out. Pull it up to start, push it down to stop."

Grace nods, watching my movements carefully. Her focus is so intense it's almost uncomfortable, like being studied under a microscope. She's literally memorizing every motion I make.

"Shampoo and conditioner are for your hair," I continue, pointing to the bottles on the shelf. "Body wash is for, well, washing your body. Towels are here."

I gesture toward the towel rack, which currently holds my blue towel from this morning. "This one's mine," I explain, pointing at the damp fabric. "I used it earlier today, so it's—well, it's not clean. You should use a fresh one."

I reach into the linen closet beside the shower and pull out a clean white towel from the stack. "Here," I say, hanging it on the empty hook beside mine. "This one's all yours."

Grace examines the towel with careful consideration, as if I've just handed her some kind of rare artifact rather than a basic bathroom necessity. Her fingers brush over the fabric, testing its softness.

"You should also have your own facecloth," I add, digging in the closet again. I pull out a small square of matching fabric and hang it on the hook opposite mine. "This is for washing your face, or really, whatever you want. Mine's over there—" I point to my own facecloth, hanging on its designated hook, "—but it's used, so you should have your own."

"A smaller cloth specifically for facial cleaning," Grace observes, fingering the facecloth with the same careful assessment. "Efficient."

"I mean, you can use it for whatever, but yeah, mostly faces." I run a hand through my hair, fighting the urge to babble nervously as she continues studying the bathroom fixtures with unnerving intensity. "Some people use them for... other parts. But it's yours, so whatever works for you."

Grace tilts her head slightly. "What are the optimal parameters for water temperature? In my world, water is typically the temperature of its source."

"Oh, um, that depends on personal preference," I explain, relieved to be back on less awkward territory. "Most people like it pretty warm, but not hot enough to burn. You might want to start in the middle and adjust until it feels good to you."

I move toward the door, pointing to a small switch on the wall. "This turns on the light," I flip it to demonstrate, the overhead fixture illuminating with a soft glow. "And this one," I indicate another switch next to it, "controls the fan. It's an exhaust fan. It helps clear steam after a hot shower."

"The light is..." Grace pauses, seeming to search for words. "Unnecessary for you?"

"Yeah, pretty much," I confirm with a small shrug. "Light's tricky for me since it's not solid. I can sense it's there because of heat, but I can't really tell if a room is lit or not. But it's good with other people around, and my parents will be coming home soon. If you decide to stay here, having the light on will signal that the bathroom is occupied. It stops people from trying to get in while you're using it."

My hand moves to the doorknob. "Speaking of which, this is really important—there's a lock on the door." I demonstrate the mechanism, pushing in the knob before turning it clockwise. The small click as it engages is barely audible. "When it's locked, no one can come in while you're using the bathroom."

I unlock it and then lock it again, wanting to make sure she understands. "You can—and should—lock this whenever you're in here. Privacy is important."

Grace steps forward, examining the lock with interest. She turns it one way, then the other, testing its function. "Effective," she comments. "Though it would not stop someone truly determined to enter."

That comment sends a chill down my spine. Why would she even think about someone trying to break into a locked bathroom? What kind of world does she come from where that's a normal consideration?

"Well, my parents aren't in the habit of breaking down bathroom doors," I assure her, forcing a small laugh. "Anyway, they won't be back for a day or two, so you've got plenty of time to get cleaned up and settled. And I promise, no one's coming in while you're in here, since I'm the only other one in the house, and I don't make a habbit of breaking down bathroom dores. Dawson doesn't either."

She studies my face for a moment, then nods ever so slightly. "I wish to use the shower now."

"Great," I say, backing toward the door, suddenly aware of how small the bathroom feels with both of us in it. "Just, uh, let me know if you need anything. I'll be in the living room."

As I close the door behind me, I hear the lock turn, and something in me relaxes slightly. At least that's one normal human skill she has down pat. Now I just need to figure out how to explain to my parents that I've invited a woman from another dimension to stay with us—a woman who thinks ripping out throats is a perfectly reasonable topic for dinner conversation and whose got powers that can one, make a truck loose when hitting her and two, can fix something that we thought was un-fixable. Good thing I like makeing stories, cause this one's going to be my gratest yet.

Tomorrow's going to be... interesting.

---Grace---

I stand alone in the small room, the door safely locked as Jason suggested. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror above the sink—black hair matted with bits of forest debris, sharp features set in the neutral expression I've cultivated since childhood. The sight is familiar, yet strange in this setting of gleaming porcelain and polished metal fixtures.

The knife weighs comfortably against my hip, its familiar presence grounding me as I survey this strange chamber dedicated solely to bodily maintenance. In my world, such elaborate facilities for mere cleansing would be an unfathomable luxury—washing typically involves cold streams or heated water in communal spaces, never this private ritual in a specialized room.

Jason's scent lingers here—pine soap and something uniquely his, layered with traces of his morning routine. I inhale deeply, sorting through the chemical signatures. Artificial mint from tooth cleaning. Plant-based oils in the "shampoo" bottles. The slightly musty scent of damp fabric where his blue towel hangs.

His towel. My towel. The distinction nags at me as I examine the white cloth he provided. Why did he give me this? The fabric is soft between my fingers, absurdly plush compared to the rough-woven cloths we use for drying in my clan. He could have simply directed me to use whatever was available, yet he specifically designated this one as mine.

This consideration puzzles me. Jason has consistently placed my needs before his own since my arrival—shelter when I was freezing, food when I was hungry, clothing when mine was inappropriate for this world. Now, a personal cloth for cleansing. Such behavior defies the basic survival principles I've lived by. In my world, self-preservation comes first; it's how everyone survives. His concern for me above himself is not precisely worrying, but... strange.

Perhaps it connects to his attraction to me? The thought surfaces unbidden as I examine the shower mechanism. His scent revealed the truth earlier—that unmistakable flare of desire quickly suppressed by confusion and shame. He genuinely finds me attractive, despite everything he knows about me. Despite what I am.

I run my fingers along the metal fixtures, testing their resistance. Left for hot, right for cold. The knowledge feels somehow intimate, a small piece of this world's functioning that I now possess.

If Jason truly desires me, why not simply command me with the death oath? I'm bound to fulfill one significant request—he could satisfy whatever urges he harbors without concern for my willingness. The thought doesn't frighten me as it perhaps should. It's simply the reality of power dynamics. Yet he explicitly refused this path, citing the imbalance between us as his reason for restraint.

Even that is confusing. Power exists to be wielded. A tool unused might as well be discarded. In my world, advantage is never squandered—especially not from some abstract moral concern. His refusal to exploit his position defies everything I understand about human nature.

I reach for the knob marked "H," turning it experimentally. Water sputters from the overhead pipe, gradually strengthening to a steady stream. Steam begins to rise as the temperature increases. The mechanics are simple enough, though the casual luxury of hot water appearing at a twist of metal strikes me as almost magical.

I pull the lever as Jason demonstrated, and water cascades from the overhead fixture. The sensation of warm droplets hitting my outstretched hand is startling—neither the icy bite of mountain streams nor the carefully rationed warmth of camp kettles, but something altogether more pleasant. Adjusting the temperature until it reaches a comfortable warmth, I consider the practical benefits of cleaning.

Appearing less distinctive will be tactically advantageous. Predators—human or otherwise—target those who stand out. If I'm to navigate this strange world effectively, blending in becomes essential. Clean hair, appropriately groomed body, scent aligned with local norms—these small adjustments will help me avoid unwanted attention.

Still, the nagging question remains: why does Jason care? He gains nothing obvious from these actions. The death oath binds me regardless of his treatment. Yet he continues to offer small kindnesses that serve no strategic purpose I can discern.

I execute a quick shrug, mimicking the gesture I've seen Jason perform so often. The movement feels stiff, unnatural—a poor simulation of the casual human communication it's meant to convey. Such reflexive gestures don't come naturally to me, though perhaps they should if I'm to blend into this world more effectively.

Enough contemplation. Cleanliness serves practical purposes regardless of Jason's motivations. I begin removing the borrowed clothing, setting each piece aside with methodical precision. The sweatpants, folded along their creases. The oversized shirt, smoothed flat and placed atop them. The makeshift breast binding, carefully unwound and set aside for later use.

The combat blade remains within reach, resting on the counter beside the sink. Never be more than one quick movement from a weapon—survival lessons are not easily unlearned, even in supposedly safe environments.

I remove the last bit of clothing before nodding, and turning towards the running water. When in Rome, the druid often says, though I have no idea what this Rome place is, or why anyone would wish to go there. However, the meening behind it, explained to me, is clear enough.

---Jason---

---Jason---

I sit on the couch as the sound of running water drifts from the bathroom, my mind racing. The steady rhythm of the shower creates a backdrop for thoughts that refuse to organize themselves into anything coherent, since I need to get my shit together about Grace. And fast.

First things first: why am I doing this? Why did I bring a potentially dangerous woman from another dimension into my home? Why am I lending her my clothes, showing her how to use the shower, and generally acting like this is all perfectly normal?

I run my hands through my hair, tugging slightly at the roots. I need to be honest with myself, at least. Do I find her attractive like she asked so bluntly earlier?

Yes. Though not in the way I would have expected.

I've always been told that physical attraction comes first—the initial spark that draws you to someone. And sure, Grace is physically attractive. Those intense green eyes that miss nothing. The sharp angles of her face that somehow manage to be both fierce and beautiful. The lithe strength in her movements. Even her scent—pine and something wild I can't quite name—pulls me in on a level I hadn't known existed before yesterday.

But it's more than that.

It's her honesty—brutal, unfiltered, and oddly refreshing. She didn't tell me to put the knife away because I might hurt myself. She straight-up said she wouldn't promise not to hurt me, which is... strangely comforting? In a world where people constantly dance around each other with half-truths and social niceties, having someone who will tell you exactly what she thinks without giving the faintest shit is grounding. Intriguing. Releaving in that I don't have to worry about her reaction, because she'll just tell me streight up.

And that moment when she said she wasn't attractive? That she's "too sharp, too dangerous, too competent" to be desirable? Something in me went cold with anger. Who taught her that? Who convinced her that strength and capability made her unworthy rather than more impressive? I push aside the ridiculous urge to find those people and introduce them to the business end of my survival knife. Not helpful, and I don't know how to skin people anyway.

Right. So I'm attracted to Grace. Now what?

The death oath. I need to understand exactly how it works before I accidentally command her to do something. When she gets out of the shower, I need to ask her about the parameters, what I can and can't do, and most importantly, how to ensure I never activate it. Are there specific phrases that trigger it? Can she refuse a command if she wants to? And how the hell do I release her from it entirely?

My phone chimes, interrupting my thoughts. I fumble for it on the coffee table, squinting at the screen I can't actually see. The familiar ringtone identifies the caller either way.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"Hey, Mom," I say, settling back into the cushions.

"Jason, sweetheart!" My mother's voice comes through, warm and energetic as always. "How are you doing? Everything okay at the house?"

"Everything's fine," I assure her, smiling despite my mild exasperation. "Just like it was yesterday when you called, and the day before."

"Well, can you blame me for checking on my boy?" she asks, the familiar note of motherly concern in her voice both reassuring and exasperating in equal measure. "Especially with us being away."

"I'm twenty-eight, Mom," I remind her gently. "I've been managing on my own for the last two weeks, why do you think something just happened to change today?"

"A mother always knows, honey," she says with that infuriating confidence that makes me wonder if she's somehow developed psychic abilities specifically tuned to my life. "Besides, your father said he had a feeling."

Great. Dad's "feelings" are eerily accurate more often than I'd like to admit. I glance toward the bathroom, where water still runs behind the locked door. If he's sensing the interdimensional warrior woman currently using our shower, I'm going to have some explaining to do.

"Everything's fine," I repeat, more firmly this time. "The house is intact, Dawson is fed, and I haven't burned anything down or stabbed myself."

"That's not a very high bar, sweetie," Mom says, laughter in her voice. "But I'm glad to hear it. How's work? Dave still running those poor investment bankers through the mud?"

"Literally," I confirm, grateful for the change of subject. "Some guy showed up in Italian leather boots this morning. Dave sent him to the equipment shed for the 'special boots'—you know, the ones filled with freezing slush."

Mom's laugh comes through clearly. "That man never changes. How's your project coming along? The database thing?"

"It's fine," I say, not wanting to explain that I spent today trying to navigate a world I can suddenly see while pretending nothing had changed. "Should be done by next week. How's Mexico?"

"Gorgeous! The weather is perfect—warm but not too hot. We're headed to the ruins tomorrow. Your father is very excited about the architectural elements." I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. "You know how he gets when he sees interesting support structures."

"Dad's structural obsession paid for college, Mom," I remind her, smiling at the familiar conversation.

"I know, I know. Oh! That reminds me—I called because Martha is going to drop by this evening with a casserole for you. She insisted."

I resist the urge to groan. Martha Henderson's casseroles are legendary in the neighborhood—and not in a good way. Her tuna surprise has sent braver men than me running for the hills, and not even to mention me and vegetables have a rockey relationship at best. Somehow got squeezed tomatoe juce directly in the eye, and haven't forgiven them since.

"That's... thoughtful of her," I manage. "But she really doesn't need to—"

"She wants to, honey. You know how she is. Oh! Your father says hello. He's driving or he'd say it himself."

"Tell Dad I said hi back."

"We'll be home in two days," Mom continues. "Your father has a conference call tomorrow evening that he couldn't reschedule, so we're staying the extra night. Will you be okay until then?"

The irony of her question hits me square in the chest. Will I be okay? With my newly acquired sight, the interdimensional warrior in my bathroom, and the death oath hanging over my head? Sure, Mom. Everything's peachy.

"I'll manage somehow," I say dryly.

"That's my boy," she says warmly. "Oh, I almost forgot! I wanted to ask you about—wait, Jason, what's that behind you? Is that..." Her voice shifts to confusion. "Is that...a breast I'm seeing in the background?"

My stomach drops through the floor. I whip around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.

Grace stands in the bathroom doorway, her blue-black hair wrapped in a towel, wearing the same clothes as earlier—my gray sweatpants and navy shirt. But unlike before, the shirt now clearly outlines her chest. The makeshift binding she'd created earlier is conspicuously absent, and the thin fabric of my shirt leaves very little to the imagination. She meets my panicked gaze with calm curiosity, seemingly unaware of the chaos she's just unleashed.

"Jason?" Mom's voice has that tone—the one that suggests I have approximately three seconds to provide an explanation before the interrogation begins in earnest.

"I've got a friend over, Mom," I blurt, my voice coming out several notes higher than intended. "Gotta go, we're about to have dinner. Love you, tell Dad I said bye!"

I slam my finger on the end call button before she can respond, immediately dropping my head into my hands with a groan. I'm so dead. So, so dead, and it's not even the kind Grace can stab, then probably eat.

"Who were you speaking with?" Grace asks, approaching the couch with that predatory grace that seems to follow her even when she's wearing my clothes. "I detect no other presence in this dwelling, yet you were conversing as if another person was present."

I look up at her through my fingers, trying very hard to keep my eyes locked on her face and not drift downward. "It's called a phone," I explain, holding up the device. "It lets you talk to people who aren't physically here. That was my mother. She's in Mexico with my dad."

Grace studies the phone with obvious interest. "A communication device that functions across vast distances. Useful." Her gaze sharpens suddenly. "Your physiological responses indicate stress. Did this conversation with your mother cause you distress?"

I laugh, the sound verging on hysterical. "You could say that. She, uh, saw you. In the background. Without your..." I gesture vaguely toward her chest, feeling my face heat up. "That binding thing you made."

Grace looks down at herself, then back at me, comprehension dawning in her eyes. "Ah. The chest wrapping was wet. As such, I removed it to dry. I did not realize its visibility would cause social complications." She says this as casually as someone might mention forgetting an umbrella, not standing there giving my mother a full view of her breasts during a video call.

---Grace---

I step inside, closing the glass door behind me.

The sensation is...

I stand perfectly still, momentarily stunned as the water cascades over my head and shoulders. Heat envelops me completely, penetrating muscles I didn't realize were tense. My breath catches in my throat before escaping in a small sound I didn't intend to make.

This is unlike anything in my experience. In my world, hot water is a precious resource, laboriously heated over fires and used sparingly. Only the clan leaders or those with significant status would experience warmth like this, and never in such abundance. The rest of us make do with frigid streams or lakes, washing quickly before the cold becomes dangerous even with Vigger.

Yet here, warmth flows endlessly at the turn of a knob. Wasteful, perhaps, but undeniably effective.

I allow myself to stand motionless for 247 seconds, conducting a methodical assessment of this new experience. The water pressure loosens knots in my shoulders. The heat permeates deeper tissues than I expected. Small bits of forest debris—pine needles, dirt, fragments of leaf—wash from my hair and skin, circling before disappearing down the drain.

Eventually, I reach for the plastic container labeled "shampoo." The substance inside smells vaguely like the flowering bushes that bloom during our brief summer season, though more concentrated and artificial. I mimic the motions I've observed from Jason, working the substance into my hair until it creates a slippery lather. The sensation of massaging my scalp is unexpectedly efficient at releasing tension at the base of the skull, where muscle attachments often become rigid during prolonged combat readiness.

Next comes the "conditioner," which has a heavier consistency. I apply this as instructed, then rinse, allowing the water to carry away the residue.

As I clean myself, I consider my current situation. Jason has shown me remarkable kindness without apparent ulterior motive. This behavior pattern is outside my experience. Those who hold power in my world use it without hesitation, whether for protection, advancement, or simple convenience. Jason's restraint suggests either remarkable discipline or fundamental ignorance of his position.

He has earned the right to know what I am, death oath or not. His actions—sheltering me, feeding me, teaching me to operate his devices, entrusting his loyal companion to my care—suggest an investment in my wellbeing that exceeds normal caution toward strangers. He shows no fear in my presence, even after I warned him about gutting the last person who touched me without permission.

His admission that he finds me attractive still circles in my thoughts like a predator stalking prey. Under the death oath, he could command me in ways others might find objectionable. The thought creates an unfamiliar tension in my abdomen—not fear, exactly, as fear was cut from me long ago. Something adjacent to caution, perhaps.

Yet Jason has not commanded me at all, despite the power the oath grants him. Not once has he attempted to leverage his position or extract benefit from the situation. Such behavior would be considered foolish weakness by the elders of my clan, yet I find it... not displeasing.

I turn off the water with a precise motion, observing how the flow stops immediately. Even this simple technology represents remarkable efficiency—no gradual diminishing of flow, no need to replenish sources manually.

As I reach for the cloth Jason called a "towel," I decide: I will tell him what I am. No deceit, no omission. The druid always said that even half-truths can be strategic errors when dealing with potential allies. "Truth is a weapon," he would tell us, "best wielded precisely at the right moment."

I believe that moment has come. Jason should understand exactly what manner of being now dwells in his home, bound by oath yet still fundamentally dangerous. He deserves to know the truth about the condition that shapes my every thought and action—my inability to feel emotions as others do, my calculated approach to all interactions.

Perhaps then he will reconsider his apparent interest. Perhaps then he will finally give me a command, establishing the clear hierarchical relationship that would make sense of our interaction. Or perhaps he will simply accept this information as he has accepted everything else about me—with that strange, unguarded openness that makes no tactical sense yet somehow feels like something I want to preserve rather than exploit.

The thought is unfamiliar enough that I pause in the act of drying myself, analyzing this strange impulse that seems to prioritize his wellbeing over my tactical advantage. Another puzzle to solve in this strange world where small mammals don't hunt humans and unlimited hot water falls from the ceiling at the turn of a knob.

I wrap the towel around my dripping hair, carefully wringing out the excess moisture. In my world, wet hair in winter means death, either from freezing or from the predators that track moisture through snow. My binding is soaked through from the shower, and I decide to leave it hanging to dry. The borrowed clothing—Jason's soft shirt and loose pants—clings to my still-damp skin as I slip them on. Without the binding, my breasts press against the thin fabric—a tactical vulnerability I'd normally address immediately, but necessity dictates adaptation.

I move silently down the hallway, each step measured and precise. A voice drifts from the living room—Jason's, but he seems to be speaking to no one. My fingers find the hilt of my bone knife automatically, muscles tensing in preparation for whatever threat might be present.

I pause at the threshold, assessing the situation before committing to entry. Jason sits alone on the couch, a small glowing rectangle similor to the truck driver's held near his face. No other humans present. No visible threats. Yet he speaks as if engaged in conversation.

"I'm twenty-eight, Mom," he says to the rectangle, his tone carrying that gentle exasperation I've begun to recognize. "I've been managing on my own for two weeks now."

The rectangle responds in a female voice—older, warm, with vocal patterns similar to Jason's own. This must be the "phone" communication device he mentioned earlier.

I study him from the doorway, observing how his shoulders hunch slightly forward as he speaks. His fingers tap a nervous rhythm against the phone's edge—a gesture I've noticed he makes when uncomfortable. Despite his claim of independence, his body language betrays a deference to the female voice that suggests a complex relationship dynamic. The clan dynamic between mothers and their adult offspring was never something I fully understood, as I have no memory of my own.

"That's... thoughtful of her," he says, his tone shifting. "But she really doesn't need to—"

I step into the room, the floorboard beneath my right foot creaking slightly despite my careful weight distribution. The sound draws no reaction from Jason, who continues his conversation.

Dawson lies curled on his bed in the corner, his ears perking up at my entrance though his body remains relaxed. His tail thumps once against the cushion in acknowledgment. He doesn't perceive me as a threat—an assessment I find strangely satisfying.

I center my weight, settling into a balanced stance that allows for full perimeter awareness while I observe Jason. His focus remains entirely on the communication device, unaware of my presence. When in this relaxed state, his face softens in a way that makes him appear younger, less burdened. The lines around his eyes—so often creased with concentration as he navigates this world with his new sight—smooth away.

The female voice continues discussing unfamiliar people and places. I note how Jason's responses become increasingly brief, his right shoulder rising incrementally with each exchange—a defensive posture I recognize from cornered animals attempting to appear smaller to avoid attention.

A drop of water escapes from the towel on my head, tracing a cold path down my temple. In my world, that single droplet could attract scent-hunters from kilometers away—the predators that track moisture through the frozen forests, drawn to the smell of fresh water on warm bodies.

"That's my boy," the female voice says warmly from the rectangle. "Oh, I almost forgot! I wanted to ask you about—wait, Jason, what's that behind you? Is that..." The voice shifts to confusion. "Is that...a breast I'm seeing in the background?"

Jason's scent spikes instantly with alarm—sharp, acrid notes cutting through his usual pine-soap smell. His pulse visibly accelerates at his throat, his face flushing a deep crimson that extends down his neck and beneath his collar. He whips around so quickly I hear his neck vertebrae crack in protest.

His eyes widen as they land on me, pupils dilating in what I recognize as the fear response. Yet the fear-scent doesn't match what I typically encounter—it lacks the sour notes of survival terror. This is social fear, complex and layered with embarrassment.

"Jason?" the female voice demands, tone shifting to something that carries unmistakable authority despite the distance between them.

"I've got a friend over, Mom," Jason blurts, his voice jumping several tones higher than his normal register. "Gotta go, we're about to have dinner. Love you, tell Dad I said bye!"

His finger stabs at the device with unnecessary force. He immediately drops his head into his hands with a groan that carries notes of genuine distress. The reaction puzzles me—nothing in this scenario presents immediate danger, yet his vital signs indicate acute stress.

I approach the couch with measured steps, cataloging his continued physiological responses. His ears remain flushed with blood, his breathing shallow and rapid. Even with his face covered, I can see the tension in his jaw, the clenched muscles along his neck.

"Who were you speaking with?" I ask, stopping at the precise distance that maintains appropriate conversational proximity while respecting the personal boundary he seems to prefer. "I detect no other presence in this dwelling, yet you were conversing as if another person was present."

Jason looks up through his fingers, his gaze briefly dropping to my chest before snapping back to my face with such speed it suggests deliberate control. The scent of his attraction spikes briefly—warm and sharp—before being overwhelmed by the continuing waves of embarrassment and shame.

"It's called a phone," he explains, holding up the rectangular device. "It lets you talk to people who aren't physically here. That was my mother. She's in Mexico with my dad."

I examine the phone with genuine interest, calculating its tactical applications. "A communication device that functions across vast distances. Useful." I refocus on Jason, noting the continued elevation in his pulse, the persistent flush across his skin. "Your physiological responses indicate stress. Did this conversation with your mother cause you distress?"

Jason laughs—a strange, strained sound that holds no actual mirth. His scent shifts again, layering resignation over the embarrassment. "You could say that. She, uh, saw you. In the background. Without your..." His hand makes a vague gesture toward my chest, his gaze carefully maintaining eye contact as his face deepens further in color. "That binding thing you made."

I look down at myself, assessing the situation objectively. Without the binding, the borrowed shirt clearly outlines my breasts. In my world, such exposure would be tactically irrelevant—bodies are simply tools, their various configurations meaningless except in terms of combat efficiency.

But here, in this strange place where people form complex social judgments based on clothing and physical attributes, I've clearly violated some important protocol. This realization creates an unfamiliar sensation in my chest—not guilt, as I understand it, but something adjacent to it. A recognition that my actions have created complications for Jason despite his continued kindness toward me.

"Ah. The chest binding was wet. As such, I removed it to dry. I did not realize its visibility would cause social complications."

Jason's expression shifts to something I can't immediately identify—his eyebrows draw together while his mouth quirks upward at one corner. The complex emotion appears to be a mixture of resignation and amusement.

"Yeah, well," he sighs, running a hand through his hair—another gesture I've cataloged as indicating his discomfort. "My mother seeing an unbound woman in my house via video call was definitely not on my bingo card for today."

The reference to "bingo" is unfamiliar, but the context suggests some form of unexpected event tracking. I file the phrase away for future analysis.

"I should retrieve my binding," I state, turning toward the bathroom where the garment hangs. "Will this rectify the social error?"

"Too late for that," Jason says, his voice carrying a note of fatalistic acceptance. "Mom's already seen everything. She's probably on the phone with my aunt right now, telling her that her perpetually single son has a half-naked woman in his house."

The term "half-naked" creates a momentary confusion. I am wearing multiple clothing items that cover approximately 94% of my total body surface area. The binding's absence reveals no actual skin. His terminology appears imprecise by objective standards.

"I should clothe myself more appropriately for this environment," I conclude, reassessing tactical parameters. "What would constitute suitable attire for a female in your dwelling?"

Jason's mouth opens, then closes, then opens again—a response pattern I've observed when he's struggling to articulate complex thoughts. "The clothes are fine, really. It's just—" he gestures vaguely at my chest again, his gaze still carefully avoiding direct observation. "In this culture, we typically wear, uh, bras. Undergarments. Support things."

I nod once, processing this information. "I understand. My binding serves a similar function, though designed primarily for combat efficiency rather than social convention."

"Right," Jason nods rapidly. "You probably need something more comfortable anyway. I'll figure something out." He pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture I've cataloged as indicating mental fatigue or stress. "And I'll try to explain to my mother that you're not... that we're not..." He trails off, apparently unable to complete the thought.

"That we are not engaged in mating behaviors," I clarify, completing his statement with factual precision.

Jason makes a choking sound, his face achieving a shade of red I previously would have thought impossible for human skin to produce without significant burn damage. "Yeah. That."

I consider our interaction from the previous day—his frank admission of finding me attractive when I directly questioned him, followed by his immediate assurance that he wouldn't act on that attraction due to the "power imbalance" created by the death oath.

"Would it not be simpler to explain that I am merely staying here temporarily?" I suggest. "She need not know about the oath or our exact arrangement."

"Simpler, sure," Jason agrees, finally meeting my eyes again. "But Mom has a sixth sense for these things. She's going to assume there's something going on no matter what I say. Also, well, I'm not the social type, and a woman in the house because of that?" He shrugs, then sighs. "I'll deal with that though, I'm the one who's dealt with it for decades, and you have enough to adjust too without social dynamics on top of everything else."

"Because she observed my unbound chest," I conclude, understanding the causal relationship. The cultural significance attached to female anatomy continues to present tactical complications I hadn't anticipated.

"Pretty much," Jason sighs. "In her defense, if she saw any other woman with her..." he gestures again, "...visible like that in my house, it would be a reasonable assumption."

This information illuminates another aspect of this world's social dynamics. Physical proximity combined with specific states of dress carries implicit meaning about relationship status or mating intentions. Inefficient, perhaps, but consistent with the indirect communication patterns I've observed.

"I apologize for creating this complication," I say, the words emerging before I've fully analyzed my motivation for offering them. Another strange impulse—acknowledging responsibility for a social breach seems unnecessary from a purely tactical perspective, yet something in me wishes to minimize Jason's discomfort.

"It's not your fault," he says, his voice softening. "You couldn't know. Different worlds, different rules."

His willingness to accommodate my ignorance rather than exploit it continues to puzzle me. In my experience, knowledge gaps represent tactical vulnerabilities to be leveraged, yet Jason consistently chooses to bridge these gaps instead.

"I am capable of learning your world's rules," I state, meeting his gaze directly. "I adapt quickly."

Something shifts in Jason's expression—the tension easing from his jaw, his eyes warming with what appears to be genuine appreciation. "I've noticed," he says simply.

The moment stretches between us, neither uncomfortable nor urgent. For the first time since arriving in this strange place, I feel something approaching equilibrium—a momentary balance point where our worlds, so fundamentally different, find a narrow bridge of understanding.

Then Dawson breaks the silence with a dramatic yawn, drawing both our attention. The everyday sound restores normal parameters to the interaction and brings that warmth to Jason's smile and scent.

"I should find something to dry my hair more efficiently," I say, touching the damp towel still wrapped around my head. "In my world, wet hair in winter presents significant survival risks."

"Right," Jason says, visibly relieved by the return to practical matters. "Let me show you how the hair dryer works."

As I follow him back toward the bathroom, I continue to process the interaction. The complex social dynamics of this world may present as many challenges as its strange devices and customs, but I am adapting. Learning. Integrating new knowledge into my tactical framework.

And beneath it all runs that strange current of something that feels almost like connection—a recognition that despite our profound differences, Jason and I are navigating this unusual situation together. The realization creates an unfamiliar warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with the lingering heat of the shower.

This, too, requires further analysis.