With Vergil there, surrounding her and holding her, the scent of him close despite the bath, Mizu wants him and to lose herself with him. A small huff, as he talks, gives away her immediate thoughts, but his voice wraps around her. She lets him guide her hand, his hand over hers a lifeline to what she pushed for. Her fingers move in imitation of his, what he's done time and time again, so much that Mizu knows exactly what she likes and what shortens her breath.

Vergil continues to speak, and the image he paints appears like brushstrokes in her mind. Even then, even in this image, he ghosts the scene. His clothes, his scent, the memory of his hand on hers, weighted further because she feels his fingers over hers. Mizu groans, sinking further against his hand at her back. Her longing for Vergil when he's gone fuels the image he paints. They're together this moment, and Mizu wants him more. Like he's a figment of her imagination.

"When I wear your clothes," Mizu manages, her fingers repeating the slow movements. She bites her lip, not to quiet herself but not to rush faster. When he's gone she always wants to feel him as long as she can. "You're always on my mind."

Sometimes with bodily longing, but that ache goes unanswered until next she sees him. Not this time, not in the image in her mind. She's on her bed in her mind's eye, a book of poetry spread open on the bed beside her. Even the pillow smells faintly of him. It's all him. Her fingers move in small circles. As with swordplay, she imitates ways he's teased her before. She breathes harder. "I lie where you did on the bed."

It's what she sees.