Page 40 of Hold Me Tight

But right now?

It’s calling my name.

Shoulders squared and chin lifted, I head back to the bedroom. River is sprawled across the king-sized mattress with his hands folded behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The position draws my eyes to the curve of his biceps, flexed just enough to make my mouth turn cottony. He glances over, his gaze tracking me as I pause at the doorway, suddenly more aware of myself than I want to be.

“Is it all right if I take a shower?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

His brows lift just a fraction. “Callie, you don’t have to ask permission to do anything. This is your home now. Nora’s too.”

The way he says it tugs a string loose inside me. A string I’ve kept wrapped tight for too long. The ache that blooms within me at the sound of my daughter’s name on his lips catches me off guard. Like he already sees her as part of his life.

It takes effort to swallow the lump of emotion rising within me. “Thank you.”

His lips lift. “No problem.”

With a nod, I turn and slip back inside the bathroom. The moment the door clicks shut behind me, I reach for the lock and twist it.

Not because I don’t trust him.

I do.

It’s probably what unsettles me the most.

I lean against the solid wood and try to gather my composure. There’s something dangerously comforting about this space. About him. About the quiet, steady way he keeps showing up.

It’s unfamiliar territory.

And yet, it doesn’t feel wrong.

It feels like the start of something I have no idea if I’m ready for but can’t bring myself to walk away from.

More than anything, I need a sliver of control in a situation that feels like it’s slipping further from my grasp with each passing second.

I twist the shower handles and watch as water cascades from the rainfall head mounted in the ceiling. For a long beat, I stand and stare at it, letting the sound calm my frayed nerves. Then I move on autopilot, peeling off my clothes and dropping each piece into a neat pile on the cool tile. I dig through my duffel for a ponytail holder and then twist my hair into a messy bun before stepping into the enclosure.

The second the warm spray hits my skin, I exhale.

Not just a sigh, but something that sounds a little too close to a sob.

I close my eyes and tilt my face toward the heat, letting it wash over me, melt into my muscles, and sink deep beneath the stress that’s been living in my bones for months. It feels so good I could cry. Instead, I press my palms to the wall, let my forehead rest against the tile, and try to regain my bearings.

It feels like it’s been years since I’ve been able to do that.

There’s no rushing.

No multitasking.

Nora’s not screaming from the other room.

There isn’t a clock ticking down until the next crisis.

There’s just stillness.

It’s blissful.

As dangerous as the thought is, I can see how easy it would be to get used to this.

To River.