Page 35

EMMY

I don’t know how long we stay like this.

Wrapped in his arms, my body boneless, breath coming slow and uneven as the burn beneath my skin fades into something else—something earned.

I’m not crying anymore.

But I haven’t come all the way back, either.

Not yet.

Cal’s hand moves over my back. Up into my hair.

Down again, resting at the top of my thigh, warm through the fabric he gently pulled back into place.

There’s a rhythm to it—unhurried, certain, like he’s calming something in both of us.

His other arm is a band around my waist. Not tight.

Just there. Steady. Anchoring me, even as his breath shifts, low and deep, matching the cadence of his hand.

Keeping me here.

His lips brush my temple. The contact is light, almost nothing. But it sends warmth flooding through me. It’s not just affection; it’s a promise. I feel myself breathe deeper, like my body recognizes that gesture for what it is—comfort, possession, and care, all folded into one quiet moment.

“It’s over now, little one,” he murmurs, voice thick and low and so soft it doesn’t even sound like speech. “You’re okay.”

I nod, barely. Press my face closer into his chest.

His heart is a lullaby under my cheek.

A place I could sleep forever.

His hand shifts. Finds my jaw. Tilts it just enough.

“You with me?”

I blink up at him.

Eyes still wet. Muscles sore. But my soul—God.

It feels light.

I nod again.

His forehead presses to mine.

“Good girl.”

The words bloom inside me like heat.

Not punishment.

Not correction.

Just care.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Still. Always.”

His hand brushes a tear from my cheek with the back of his knuckle.

Then he looks at me.

Really looks.

“Do you need anything?” he asks, voice low. “Water? Bathroom? A break from me?”

I shake my head fast at the last one. The words don’t come right, but the feeling does—no. No distance. Not now.

His gaze softens like I’ve just given him a gift.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Then let me do this.”

And before I can ask what this is—

He shifts beneath me, the motion slow and steady. His breath brushes my forehead, his body taut with something quiet and focused.

His arms curve beneath my legs and my back, lifting me in one easy, seamless motion. My body moves on instinct—legs curling back around his waist, arms winding up around his neck like I’ve always belonged there.

I bury my face in his shoulder, cheek pressed against the warmth of his skin.

He holds me like I weigh nothing.

Like I’m meant to be carried.

His breath brushes my hair, and I swear I hear it—soft and low, a murmur just for me. “Mine to hold. Always.”

Something in me melts at the sound of it. My arms tighten around his neck, my forehead pressing in beneath his jaw. Not to hide. Just to be closer. Just to let the truth of his words sink into my skin.

Because it’s everything I’ve never dared to ask for.

And he’s giving it to me freely. Fiercely.

Like it’s all he’s ever wanted, too.

The rhythm of his steps is slow, sure, unbothered by my weight or the quilt that slips slightly from my shoulders.

I don’t reach to fix it.

His hands are enough. A promise made flesh.

His holding is everything—like being carried through a storm by the one who was always meant to guide me home.

He doesn’t speak as we move—just holds me closer. I feel the tension in his arms, not from strain, but from restraint. From everything he isn’t saying.

And still, I feel safe.

Still, I feel… his.

He carries me through the hall without a word.

Not because there’s nothing to say.

Because nothing needs to be said.

Not when his arms are wrapped around me like this.

Not when every step he takes feels like a vow.

The bathroom is warm when we enter. The light low.

He must have turned the heater on earlier—it’s already taken the chill out of the tiles.

And somehow, that hits me harder than it should.

He’d thought ahead. Thought of me. Made sure it would be warm before I even needed it.

It’s such a quiet thing, but it wraps around something tender in my chest.

He shifts me gently in his arms. Not to let go. Just to reach.

Turns the faucet. Runs the water.

I listen to it swirl into the tub, soft and steady.

His hand dips under the stream, checking the temperature. Not a glance at me—his attention is already there, already on it, already making sure it’s not too hot, not too cold. Just right for me.

Steam begins to rise.

He adjusts the tap slightly, rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to the elbow.

Still holding me.

Still mine.

Then, slowly, like he’s moving through something fragile, he lowers me.

Not into the tub.

Onto the closed lid of the toilet.

One arm around my waist. The other steadying my shoulder.

Like I might sway.

Like I might shatter.

But I don’t.

Because he’s right there.

Always right there.

“Sit for a second, baby,” he murmurs, brushing a curl behind my ear. “I’ve got you.”

I nod, legs trembling slightly beneath the oversized shirt I’m still wrapped in.

His quilt.

His warmth.

His care.

The tub continues to fill, and Cal rises to his full height. Moves through the small room like it’s familiar but somehow new—like he’s claiming this space now, too, just by the way he moves inside it.

And I watch him.

Silently.

My breath caught in my throat.

Because I’ve never been cared for like this.

Because I don’t know how I could ever want anything else.

The room fills with steam.

It curls along the edges of the mirror, the corners of the window. The scent of Cal’s soap lingers faintly in the air—something clean and warm and quiet.

He crouches in front of me.

Resting on his haunches, eyes level with mine.

His hands don’t reach for me yet.

They rest on his thighs, open and waiting.

He watches me like I’m the only thing in the world he sees. His gaze is steady, awestruck—like he’s memorizing me, not with hunger, but with awe. There’s something in his stillness that feels like devotion, something in the quiet between us that hums with focus and restraint.

And then, soft as breath—

“Can I help you undress?”

My chest tightens.

Not with fear.

Not with dread.

But with something heavier.

Older.

It’s been years since I let someone see me. Really see me. Since I let someone this close. Since I let someone take care of me, down to the skin.

And yet—here I am.

With Cal.

And I want to.

God, I want to.

But my hands still tremble where they’re fisted in the quilt.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t coax.

He just waits.

I meet his gaze, voice shaking. “I don’t know if I can do this perfectly.”

Something in his expression softens like dusk over still water.

“You don’t have to be perfect, little one,” he says. “You just have to let me love you through it.”

The words sink into me like balm. My eyes sting, throat tightening around a breath that won’t quite come.

Because no one’s ever said that before.

No one’s ever meant it like this.

His gaze stays steady, and something in it breaks me open—not with fear, but with the quiet knowing that he means every word.

That this is what he’s built for.

That this is who he is—with me.

My eyes sting.

He rises slowly, his hands lifting—not to undress me.

To touch me.

His palms cradle either side of my face. His thumbs brush the corners of my eyes.

“Just tell me if you want to stop. Tell me if it’s too much.”

I nod.

He leans in, presses his forehead to mine.

And whispers, “You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Then, and only then, his hands slip to the hem of the shirt I’m wearing.

The room seems to still around us. Steam curls in the air. My breath catches, barely audible, and I watch his eyes—still waiting, asking without words. My fingers twitch where they rest in my lap, and Cal’s thumb brushes once over my knee, steady and warm. Just that. Just enough.

And then he begins. His touch is slow, reverent, like he's holding something sacred. Every motion is deliberate, measured—not with hesitation, but with care so intense it hums between us. As if in this moment, undressing me is not routine, but ritual.

Soft cotton. Too big. All him.

He lifts it slowly.

Waiting at every inch.

Checking my eyes.

And I let him.

Bit by bit.

Until I’m bare beneath the steam and the soft light and the weight of his gaze that never wavers, never drops—never makes me feel like anything less than cherished.

I’m shaking.

But I’m not ashamed.

Not with him.

Never with him.

He draws the hem of the shirt up over my arms.

I let it fall from my shoulders.

The air kisses my skin, soft and warm and full of steam, but I still shiver.

His eyes stay on mine.

He doesn’t look down.

Not until I nod.

And even then—he doesn’t devour.

He sees.

Then—his hands come to my waist.

“Let me help, sweet girl,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the band of my pants. “Will you stand for me?”

I nod again, barely more than a breath.

He rises with me.

Guides me up by the hips, my legs still shaky from what came before.

He holds me steady.

Lets me lean into his chest while he slowly, carefully, peels the fabric down.

First my pants. Then my underwear.

Every movement slow enough that I could stop it. But I don’t.

I let him undress me like he’s unwrapping something he treasures.

And when he kneels again, guiding the clothes past my knees—

He presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh.

I gasp. Barely.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just stands.

Hands at my hips again.

And gently, reverently—he turns me.

So I’m facing away.

So he can see.

The red is still there.

Across the curve of my cheeks. Down the tops of my thighs. The places where his palm met skin again and again—firm, unyielding, full of love.

I feel him take a breath behind me. It's quiet, but full—like he’s holding something heavy and reverent in his chest. I swear I can feel the exhale skim my spine, and in that moment, it’s not just breath—it’s him, present and steady, grounding me with nothing but his nearness.