Jonathan may have found his private arcadia under the massaging spray of a showerhead: water drumming on his crown, washing off his anxieties, leading him toward calm.
Or it did, before Harleen moved in with him.
"Harley? What on Earth—"
"Save the spluttering for someone who cares," the girl grins and crowds him against the tiles.
"What are you doing?" he asks, tense from the cold seeping into his back – and her skin chilling his front.
"Taking a shower, obviously." A bubblegum-like scent of raspberries pops from her shampoo bottle.
"Yes, obviously. But in case you hadn't noticed, it's occupied."
"I don't mind sharing," she says, working the gel into her hair. "And you didn't lock the door. That's an invitation."
"I mentioned there's no key to this bathroom."
"There are other ways to lock a door."
Jonathan scrubs his face. "I guess I made a mistake in counting on your common decency."
"Decency? Me?" Harleen laughs. "You know that doesn't sell in my line of work, right?"
"Right. My bad. Now, would you mind?"
"Are you really sending me naked and shivering into the cold?"
"You're hardly shivering."
"But you're shivering hard." Her grin turns wicked as she drapes herself over his chest and rests her head against his neck, suds crinkling like plastic. "Y'know, I can make it worth your while," her fingertips raise goosebumps, stealing into his nape, "scrub your back, clean you up real nice."
Jonathan's head falls back against the tiles. He can deal with Harleen ignoring boundaries, but her soaped-up skin slip-sliding against his own is too close for comfort.
Well, he's finished anyway. Smiling down at her, Jonathan turns the knob. Two seconds later, Harleen shrieks as cold water hits her, and leaps out quicker than a bullet.
That was easier than anticipated.