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“Together.” His voice drops lower, a rumble that vibrates through my chest. “Let me help you. Like you help me.”
Steam fills the tiny bathroom, turning the air thick. My hands shake as I peel away his bandages, revealing the damage beneath. Bruises paint his torso in violent watercolors—purple fading to green, yellow at the edges.
“Jesus, Blaze.” The words catch in my throat.
“Worth it.” His fingers trace my collarbone, featherlight over my bruises. “Every mark was worth it.”
Water cascades over us, hot enough to sting. Blood and grime swirl away, carrying pieces of the past with them. His hands are gentle as he helps me wash, careful of tender spots and broken skin.
“Turn around.” The words ghost across my shoulder. “Let me get your back.”
Soap-slick hands slide over muscle, finding knots of tension. I lean into his touch, letting him take my weight. For once, I don’t have to be strong.
“I’ve got you.” His lips brush the nape of my neck. “Always.”
My breath hitches as his fingers trace old scars—marks from a lifetime of survival. But he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press. Just maps them with infinite tenderness, accepting each one as part of me.
“Your turn.” I face him, reaching for the soap. My palms glide over his chest, learning the terrain of him. Bullet scars and knife wounds tell their own stories of violence and protection.
“That one.” His hand covers mine over a puckered scar near his heart. “Kandahar. Six years ago.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” His forehead rests against mine. “I want you to know everything about me, and I want you to share whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”
So we talk.
Under the steam and spray, we share our scars. Each mark is a story, and each story is a piece of trust given freely between us. The water runs cold before we finish, but neither of us moves to shut it off. The chill is grounding, a reminder that this is real.
We’re real.
Fresh bandages next. My fingers steady as I wrap his ribs, covering purple-black bruises. His hands return the favor, impossibly gentle over my stitches.
“Almost done.” The words catch as his thumb brushes the sensitive skin beneath my breast.
His pupils dilate, turning his eyes midnight dark. “Ember…”
The need builds between us, electric and overwhelming. We find each other, seeking warmth and comfort, our bodies pressed close, sharing breath and soft touches, grounding ourselves in each other.
We end up on the sofa, limbs tangled carefully around injuries. His heartbeat drums steadily under my ear. Outside, the city pulses with life, but here, time stands still.
“Tell me about California.” Sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness.
His chest rumbles with quiet laughter. “Ocean as far as you can see. Mountains touching the sky. Space to breathe.”
“Space to create?”
“All the space you need.” His fingers card through my damp hair. “Workshop overlooking the bay. Guest house we can convert.”
“Presumptuous.” But I smile against his skin.
“Hopeful.” His arms tighten fractionally. “Dream with me, Ember.”
So I do.
In the growing darkness, we paint pictures of tomorrow.
A workshop filled with light.