He hates it when I do this. When I slip into the shower when he's in there and wrap my arms around his cold, wet, slender form. Or rather, he pretends to hate it, as I turn the water from slicing cold to steaming hot, and nuzzle against his neck, and bite lightly at his shoulder. He always takes cold showers, unless I intervene. Some day I'll break him of the habit and convince him that hot water won't hurt him too much.

"Seifer," he says, mock-patiently. We've been together too long for him to be properly heartless around me. I know perfectly well that he's not as patient, or as emotionless, as he'd have people believe. "Get out."

"No." I nuzzle more against his neck, pulling him closer to me and nudging us both further under the hot water from the showerhead.

"Seifer," he says again, less patiently, more warningly. I just chuckle, reaching up to turn his face to mine, kissing him. He kisses back, of course, his mouth cool against mine. He'd have people believe that he doesn't kiss anyone, doesn't want anyone, too. My speciality is proving him wrong, so very wrong.

People see us, and they don't understand we're together. Don't understand the ways our lives have intertwined, right from the start. I might be tempted to call it fate. My mistress - my former mistress - or I think it was her, anyway, called us the liberi fatalli. The fated children.

I wouldn't ever tell him that, though. He hates to hear about anything from the time when I was with the sorceress. I don't blame him; it must have been agony. I'm grateful that so much of it is darkness. But, sometimes, when she was nice to me... I remember some of that. Even though it was probably just bringing me to her side, binding me ever tighter to her.

He turns more in my arms, his eyes fastening to mine, holding me. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing," I reassure him, pressing my mouth to his again, my body wrapping around his.

The sorceresses dark allure aside, nothing has ever drawn me from Squall. Or ever will again.