Shen Yifei lay unconscious.
Not dead — just broken. Soft. Flushed. Spent.
Her body was curled slightly on her side, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. Damp strands of hair stuck to her cheeks. Sweat glistened faintly along her collarbone.
Between her thighs, the mess we'd made continued to leak out, thick and heavy, pooling beneath her hips and soaking the sheets. Her breasts lifted with every breath, the tips still stiff and red. A slow twitch passed through one thigh, then the other.
She looked at peace.
The basin nearby held a stack of clean towels. One was pulled free, soaked in warm water, then wrung out until it was just damp enough. The first stroke along her stomach was slow, soft cloth dragging across flushed skin, careful not to startle her.
She didn't wake.
