Page 36

His hand comes up—not to touch, but to hover.

A whisper above the heat.

And then—

“So good for me,” he murmurs. “So brave.”

My throat tightens.

He lets the silence wrap around us again.

Just the steam.

Just the sound of the bath filling.

Just his breath behind me, and my body bare before him.

And not once—not for a second—do I feel small.

His hand returns to the small of my back.

The same place he held me still.

The same place he anchors me now.

“Alright, little one,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and stone. “Let’s get you in.”

I nod, throat thick.

And he doesn’t let go.

He keeps one hand on my waist as he steps to the side, guiding me carefully, turning the water off with a quick flick of his wrist. That steady pressure—warm, certain—sends a thrum through my chest, grounding me in the safety of his presence.

The tub is nearly full. Steam curls like breath into the air.

He tests the temperature again—his hand dipping beneath the surface, fingers swaying through the heat like he’s making sure it’ll welcome me.

Then he nods. Looks up at me.

"You're okay now," he murmurs. "Let me take care of you."

I step forward, slow. Shaky.

But he’s right there.

His hands hold mine as I lift one leg, then the other, easing down into the water with a soft, broken gasp.

It’s hot.

Not too much.

Just enough to soothe.

To sink into the places that still ache from his hand.

I fold my knees up slightly. Lean back against the curve of the tub.

And I exhale.

Like I haven’t breathed in hours.

Cal kneels beside me.

Still fully clothed.

Still watching.

But not like I’m something on display.

Like I’m his to care for.

His hand dips into the water. Brushes along my calf.

Then—he reaches for the small bottle of soap.

Pours a little into his palm.

“Tip your head back for me, baby,” he says, voice thick with gentleness.

I do.

And his hands come to my scalp.

Warm. Slow. Careful.

He lathers through my hair like he’s doing something sacred.

Each slow motion of his fingers sends heat curling down my spine, and something low in my chest unknots.

I don’t just feel clean—I feel cared for in a way that rewrites something inside me.

Like every touch is rewriting something inside me.

Like I’m safe. Like I’m his. His thumbs press small, soothing circles.

His fingers rake back through the strands again and again.

It’s not just washing.

It’s holding.

It’s cherishing.

It’s him saying—You’re mine to tend. To love. To come home to.

And I never want him to stop.

He doesn’t rush.

Not even a little.

Once the soap has been rinsed from my hair, he shifts slightly—knees creaking against the tiles, his body so close, so still.

His gaze stays on mine.

His hand moves again.

To my shoulder first.

He gathers water in his palm, cups it over the curve of my collarbone. Then he lets his fingers follow, dragging gentle, open down the line of my arm. From shoulder to elbow. Elbow to wrist.

He lifts my hand from the water.

Turns it over.

Washes my palm with both of his.

Like it’s something delicate.

Like it’s something important.

I don’t look away.

I can’t.

There’s something in his expression I’ve never seen from anyone before.

A kind of raw, unguarded tenderness—like awe wrapped in certainty.

Like every inch of his focus is tethered to me and he wouldn’t be anywhere else.

Something so tender, so undivided, that it steals the breath right from my chest.

He moves to the other side.

Does the same.

Water drips from his fingers to my skin. The sounds are soft, steady. Like the room is breathing with us.

He doesn’t speak.

But I can feel what he’s saying with every motion:

You’re safe. You’re worthy. You’re mine.

He takes the cloth next.

Wets it. Wringing it out with slow, practiced hands.

Then he brings it to my chest.

Just below my collarbone.

I tense.

Only slightly.

He notices. Of course he does.

And he pauses.

Not backing off. Not explaining.

Just waiting.

I nod once.

And his hand begins to move again.

Washes over my chest with reverence.

Over my ribs.

Down my stomach.

Only until just above my thighs.

Then the cloth goes back into the water.

He doesn’t reach lower.

Doesn’t assume.

Just cups water in his palm and smooths it over the red still blooming across the tops of my thighs.

His voice is barely audible when he speaks.

“Still tender?”

His words find me in that place just beneath the surface—where the ache lives alongside the trust. My breath hitches, and my fingers curl slightly against the edge of the tub. Not because I don’t believe him. Because I do. Because the softness in his voice makes it real.

I nod. Barely.

His thumb grazes the edge of the bruise his hand left.

“You took it so well for me, little one,” he murmurs. “My brave girl.”

And the ache in my chest blooms like something beautiful.

He sets the cloth down gently, then reaches for a towel. Not just any towel. One of the thick ones, the kind that smells faintly like cedar and him.

He leans in.

“Ready to come out, baby?”

I nod.

He doesn’t hold out his hand.

He reaches.

Slips one arm beneath my knees, the other around my back, and lifts me again, water falling from my skin in lazy rivulets.

I curl into him without thinking.

My arms loop around his neck.

My cheek finds the hollow of his shoulder.

He holds me tighter.

Carries me from the steam-filled room like something fragile and treasured.

In the hallway, the lights are lower. The bedroom glows faintly from the fire still crackling in the wood stove beyond.

He doesn’t speak.

Just walks with me.

His footfalls are soft. Steady.

When we reach the bed, he kneels.

Lets the towel slide from his shoulder to the mattress before lowering me into it.

He dries me slowly.

Not like a task.

Like a gift.

Starting at my hair. Patting it gently.

Then down my back, my arms, my legs.

Not once does he stare.

Not once does he rush.

Just presence. Just touch.

Just him.

When I’m dry, he sets the towel aside and reaches for something on the nightstand.

A small glass jar.

The kind of lotion that smells faintly herbal—lavender, mint, something warm and grounding underneath.

He meets my eyes.

“I want to soothe you,” he says, soft. “If you’ll let me.”

My breath catches.

And I nod.

He turns back the quilt slowly, revealing me to the air again.

His hand brushes my hip.

“Roll over, little one.”

I do.

Carefully.

My skin still sensitive. Still marked.

But I trust him.

God, I trust him.

He dips his fingers into the jar.

Then rests one hand on the small of my back.

The other—cool with lotion—touches the curve of my backside.

I tense.

Not from fear.

From everything.

The ache.

The awe.

The weight of what this means.

He begins to move in slow circles.

Soft.

Soothing.

His touch is light, but not distant. He knows what he’s doing—knows how deep the sting lingers. Knows how to rub it away, inch by inch.

God, it feels like belonging.

His fingers work down to the tops of my thighs, where the skin still throbs gently with every beat of my heart.

My cheeks flush.

But I don’t stop him.

Because it’s him.

Because this is more intimate than any touch I’ve ever known.

And still—somehow—safe.

His voice breaks the quiet, deep and rough-edged, like the words have been burning in his chest, waiting to be spoken.

“This is a privilege, you know.”

His words are not just tender, but claiming. I feel them settle in my chest, and I bite down gently on my bottom lip, holding the weight of them there. “What is?”

“Getting to take care of you like this.”

I press my face into the quilt.

My chest aches with softness.

With wonder.

With something that feels dangerously close to love.

He smooths the last of the lotion across my skin.

Lingers just a second longer than he needs to.

Not to take.

Not to indulge.

Just to feel me safe.

Settled.

He wipes his hands on a towel, then reaches for the folded flannel on the nightstand.

The one I’ve seen him wear.

The one that already smells like his skin.

He lifts it in both hands, slow and deliberate, like it’s something weighty. Meaningful. Like it carries the scent of promise and protection.

Turns toward me, eyes scanning gently from the curve of my shoulder to the pink bloom across my thighs.

Then, quietly. “Arms up, sweetheart.”

His voice is low, steady and soothing with just the faintest edge of command. I lift my arms slowly, shy but trusting, my gaze flicking to his. And there it is—that look in his eyes. Protective. Certain. Like dressing me is just another way of keeping me safe.

I do it.

Slow. A little shy.

But there’s trust in the motion now.

So much trust.

He slips the shirt over my arms, lets it fall around me in soft, warm weight. Buttons it slowly. Each one threaded through with care. His knuckles graze my ribs, my belly, the base of my throat.

When the last button is done, he steps back just a breath.

And looks.

The shirt swallows me.

Soft plaid hanging past my thighs, sleeves a little too long. The collar is askew from where I’ve leaned into him all night. Bare legs. Damp curls. Skin still flushed from his touch.

His gaze moves over me—slow, full of heat.

But not hungry.

Just anchored.

Like this is a sight he never wants to forget.

His breath catches. Barely.

And he murmurs it—

Low.

Almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud:

“Jesus.”

I blink up at him.

“What?”

He swallows.

But his eyes don’t leave me.

Not even for a second.

His voice is deeper when he speaks again.

“This is mine now.”

My breath stutters, caught somewhere between awe and want. A shiver runs down my spine, and something deep inside me clenches, hungry for that claim.

I feel it everywhere. In my stomach, in my chest, between my legs, a thrum of warmth and something deeper.

He steps forward again, hands on my hips, and pulls me close.

“You’re mine.”