"Okay, agree to disagree," Wichita murmurs, giving herself a little longer to savor the whole experience before she rinses soap and shampoo off completely and then steps out, reaching for the towel she's hung up nearby so she can dry herself off without leaving puddles all over the floor.

It's strange, being sans makeup, without any kind of cover on her face - but it just feels so clean, so nice, that she can forego any kind of concealers right now. The outfit she'd found in the clothes box was a pair of denim shorts with a white, summery tank top, and she squeezed her hair dry before knotting it up into a low bun against the back of her neck, stray pieces falling loose over freckled shoulders.

"You can look now," she replied, approaching him with a tap on the shoulder. "I promise I'm clothed."