Page 67 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

When he's settled, face peaceful in sleep, we step back into the hallway. Close his door with practiced quiet. Stand in the sudden silence, proximity humming between us like current.

"Thank you," she says, eyes on the floor between us. "For today. For him."

"Don't." My voice rougher than intended. "Don't thank me for being his father."

Her gaze lifts, something flashing in the depths that might be anger, might be hurt, might be recognition. "I wasn't. I was thanking you for being present. For giving him what he needed. There's a difference."

The rebuke lands like it's meant to at my feet. I incline my head, accepting it without defense. "He's not the only one who needed today."

"No," she agrees softly. "He's not."

The admission hangs between us, fragile as smoke. I step closer, hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from her face, fingers lingering against her cheek. She doesn't move away, doesn't step into the touch. Just watches me with eyes that have seen too much of who I am to be deceived by who I pretend to be.

"You look tired," I say, thumb tracing the shadow beneath her eye.

"Exhausted," she admits with a small laugh. "I forgot how much energy he has."

"Let me run you a bath." The offer emerges without calculation, without agenda. Simply the recognition of what she needs, what I can provide. "The big tub in the master. Salts. Candles. The works."

Her eyebrow lifts slightly, wariness returning. "Jakob?—"

"Just a bath," I clarify, hand dropping from her face. "Nothing more. You take care of everyone else. Let me take care of you for once."

Something complicated moves across her features—suspicion giving way to consideration, to tentative acceptance. "Alright."

Twenty minutes later, I light the last candle, setting it on the marble edge of the tub where steam rises from water scented with lavender and sandalwood. Her favorite combination, remembered from nights when she'd sink into heat and emerge flushed, relaxed, ready for my touch.

I check the temperature once more, adjust the towels folded nearby, straighten unnecessary details to delay the moment I'll need to leave. To give her this space. This small luxury.

A soft knock at the door stops me. I turn to find her leaning against the frame, watching me with an expression I can't quite parse.

"It's ready," I say unnecessarily.

"I see that." She steps inside, closing the door behind her but not advancing further. "You remembered."

"Everything." The word too honest, too revealing. "I remember everything."

She nods once, fingers moving to the buttons of her blouse. Not a seduction. A dismissal. "Thank you. I'll take it from here."

I move toward the door, respecting the boundary she's establishing. Grateful for even this much trust. This much proximity.

"Jakob." Her voice stops me, hand on the doorknob. "Stay."

I turn slowly, uncertain I've heard correctly. She stands in the center of the bathroom, vulnerability and determination warring in her expression.

"If you want," she adds, the qualifier unnecessary. As if there's a universe where I wouldn't want to be wherever she is.

"Are you sure?"

"No." Honesty edging her voice. "But I'm asking anyway."

I lean against the counter, giving her space, giving her control of what happens next.

She unties the sash with deliberate movements, the silk parting to reveal inches of skin I've relearned with hands and mouth and memory. She lets the robe slide from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, eyes never leaving mine.

"You don't have to watch," she says—a hint of challenge beneath the words.

"I want to." Simple truth. "If you'll let me."