Some men liked swimming. Some even spent the time in he water at the beach. Raphael knew plenty of men like that, yet it didn't change the fact that the only time he enjoyed being wet was when he was soaking in a tub full of nice-smelling soaps and oils. The seawater stunk of salt and other, less familiar smells, but even worse than the stench was the feeling of his clothes sticking to his body and his hair dripping down the back of his neck as the draft passed through the room. Even the loss of his coat wasn't helping much, although it gave him a greater range of motion. One hand found his shoulder, and he spent a moment just holding it, hoping the pain would go away. He didn't even pay her any mind—didn't even think about how she was feeling—until her comment caught him off guard.

He looked over his shoulder and caught her eye, and for once he couldn't find anything to say in response. The subtext was not lost on him, either; he instinctively glanced down from her face to the rest of her body, the corner of his lips quirked into the ghost of a smile but it quickly faded and he found her eyes again. She was soaked just like him, only somehow she looked more uncomfortable than him (as if she'd been the one to hit the hard floor).

"I will," he said, suddenly feeling more indignant than he had a moment ago. Her tone had caught him off guard; she hadn't even thanked him for being a landing cushion or apologized for knocking him to his feet, and now she was snapping at him? Insolent woman. He hastily turned back towards the small bookcase, and, stepping over countless objects and slushing through the water in order to reach it, found the little indent on the side and swung it open to reveal a door.

"This way," he said, not sparing her as much as a glance before he pried it open.

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