Mia knows each time that this feeling isn't going to last.
She'll get back out. Go back about her day.
Then the heat and that oily, lurid yellow from the afternoon will set in, and it'll be far too much like Dulvey; strings will separate themselves from her hair and hang in her face, she'll feel the trail of every drop of sweat that runs down her temple or pools into her shirt as stickily as if a snail had left it, and she'll imagine herself coated in dirt and grime and mold that chokes and sticks and is always in the air, making it heavier till she can feel it's weight on her limbs, steering them and turning them, and need to decontaminate.
But she can always come back, she supposes.
Knows, logically.
She's thought to herself, taking her second or third bath of the day, that she's wasting water - and now that between her and Ethan, she's between jobs, it's one more thing she's done to make their life that much harder since they've met. With her breaths alternatingly shivering with pulled-stretched-taut nerves and rushing out in sighs too resigned now to be angry at herself, however, she's assured herself that Ethan gets it, too nice and too patient and too generous and too easygoing as always; no wonder any of this happened, and why it was so easy for her to let it and make it -
But now she doesn't even need to assure herself.
She isn't breaking up the day with reminders of it all to herself, anymore - at least not to quite the same extent. Not shipping herself off alone to the sterilization chamber to get the mold off of herself before it can drive her out of her own mind, as a matter of regretful and paranoid necessity, just like she'd always have to do after checking in on Evie to foster her imprinting while she was still in development. At least a bath felt less like old, steely, illicit procedure than a shower.
She knows he gets it, and that she isn't imposing or keeping up that distance, because her trips to the bath are now for both of them.
She heads in first, still. Peels herself out of her sticky clothing and whips it aside as if each article is a snake about to bite. Looks back over her shoulder at the smallest, warmest, "Ready?"; smiles, mildly and wistfully, at seeing Ethan there in the doorway. Smiling at her in return without looking away as if she doesn't look half as filthy as she feels. Once every day or so, hell - she may even add to the sense of innocence for both their sakes and add a bomb to the water, giving him a cloud of foam and perfume and her, she thinks with some deliberate attempt to be playful, to arrive to when he's ready.
They thread their fingers through each others' hair, rub each others' shoulders, pour water over films of soap and watch the bubbles run over the shapes of each other, and there's further reassurance in quite a bit of it - the persistent relaxation of it all, with Ethan giving no signs that she looks any different than she did when they were last able to steal peaceful, private moments together, let alone that there's any sort of stain of mold on her; finding Ethan, likewise, lovely and human but willing to join her, anyway, and trusting her smoothing strokes - both as-is and not to spoil anything, even after she's forgotten what at first drew her into the water and stopped being so ginger.
They both stop, in fact - shoulder massages abating to clear room for kisses along necks, lather and water lessened on touches for their own sake along sides, feeling between ribs and smoothing over chests as one of them finds their back settling against the wall. When it's her, she sees that she's fine, bare skin gleaming under the rosy-pink-tinged light of the bathroom, and she's almost proud of herself; with warm eyes, she smiles a thanks at him, glowing just like her, for calming her nerves. Caresses his handsome, clean face with both hands, and pulls him in for a further thanks.
Their mouths seal, and neither of them tastes anything but, plain-and-simply, each other.
Their bodies flow together, and neither of them detects anything to repel them.
Over the next few minutes, the sense of perfection mounts until it permeates; it's only her and Ethan and a clean warmth, their voices humming equally-warm notes and breathing clouds, pressing and pulling against each other with nothing to obstruct them - not even the smallest speck of something dirty. It peaks in a flare that purges even every thought of dark spaces; weeks of humidity and sweat-off panic thick over the skin; air that tastes and feels in the mouth and lungs like breathing in disease.
Leaves just light.
Then, blinking spots out of one's vision, each other's shadows, as they come back into view.
Both beaming in front of halos flashing off of water and pale tile.
They kiss again - sit in the clear, confirmed restoration and correctness of it all until the water cools, and they rise; one falls into the other's arms, lightly, when offered a hand. They may even laugh, a little, as they drape each other in towels that they wrap around themselves like newly-given angels' robes.
Before they leave, Mia looks back at the spot where they were, and where everything is done with, giving way to the sound of draining water.
At least for a while.
Again, it isn't going to last.
Even if she isn't thinking about it, she's aware of the pattern - whether tomorrow or in a few more hours, chances are she'll be back, needing that crawling feeling of filth purged away again. It isn't, however, as if she minds doing this again, at least; this a welcome state to return to.
And by now it reassures her that apart from the haze of soap, the water they leave behind to be flushed away is always colorless and clear.