I rarely wear anything in hot tubs.

Steam rises around her bare shoulders as she sinks deeper into the churning water, the jets pressing against her skin with a familiar insistence. She's made a habit of leaving her swimsuit on the hook by the door — what's the point when the heat feels this good against everything?

You watch the waterline shift across her chest, bubbles tracing paths you'd rather trace yourself. Her hair clings to her neck, and she tilts her head back with the particular satisfaction of someone who answers to no one.

She's not performing comfort. She's actually in it — loose, warm, completely unguarded.