seven
Sheryl
There's a moment right after everything changes when you're suspended between who you were and who you're becoming. I'm caught in that moment now, cradled against Alex's chest as he carries me from the kitchen through the hallway of his meticulously organized cabin.
My body aches in unfamiliar ways—pleasant reminders of what just happened between us. I press my face against his neck, breathing in his scent.
"You still smell like smoke," he murmurs against my hair, not unkindly. "From the fire."
"Sorry," I mumble, suddenly self-conscious. "Hospital showers aren't exactly spa quality."
He nudges open the bathroom door with his shoulder. "Neither are mine, but they'll do. Sorry I didn’t offer this last night." His voice is gentle as he sets me on my feet, keeping a steadying hand at my waist when my legs wobble beneath me.
"Are you sore?" he asks, his eyes searching my face with a concern that makes my chest tighten.
"A little," I admit. "But the good kind."
Alex leans over to start the bath, checking the temperature. Steam begins to rise as the large claw-foot tub fills.
"You think of everything, don't you?" I observe, watching him add what looks like epsom salts to the water.
"Force of habit." He tests the water again. "This will help with any soreness."
When he straightens and turns to me, there's a moment of awkwardness. We've just been as intimate as two people can be, yet standing naked in his bathroom feels somehow more vulnerable.
He seems to sense my discomfort. "I can leave if you want."
"Stay," I interrupt, surprising myself with the request. "Please."
When the tub is full, he helps me in, the warm water enveloping my body like a caress. I can't hold back a grateful sigh as the heat begins to work on my sore muscles.
Alex kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves. He picks up a washcloth and soap, working up a lather between his large hands.
"May I?" he asks, holding up the soapy cloth.
I nod, unable to form words around the emotion lodged in my throat. This gentle care after such intensity feels more intimate somehow than what we shared in the kitchen.
He starts with my shoulders, strong hands working the cloth in gentle circles over my skin. His touch is methodical but tender, washing away the lingering scent of smoke and hospital antiseptic.
"Close your eyes," he instructs softly, and I obey as he carefully washes my face, the cloth passing gently over my eyelids and cheeks.
"Lean forward."
I comply, hugging my knees as he washes my back with the same gentle thoroughness. When his hands move to my breasts, his touch remains caring instead of sexual, but I still feel my body responding.
"Relax," he murmurs, noticing my tension. "I'm just taking care of you."
The simple statement brings unexpected tears to my eyes. When was the last time someone took care of me, really took care of me? Not since I left home for college at eighteen, determined to prove my independence.
He works his way down, lifting each of my legs to wash them thoroughly. When he reaches the apex of my thighs, his movements become even gentler, the cloth carefully cleaning the evidence of our passion from my tender flesh.
I hiss slightly at the contact, still sensitive, and his eyes immediately find mine. "Too much?"
"No," I assure him. "Just... new."
Understanding crosses his features. He continues with careful strokes, his attention focused entirely on my comfort.
"Thank you," I whisper when he's finished.
"For what?" he asks, wringing out the cloth.
"For being careful with me." The words seem inadequate for what I'm trying to express. "Not just now, but before, too. In the kitchen."
His expression softens. "You deserved care for your first time." He pauses, regret crossing his features. "Though I wasn't as gentle as I should have been."
"You were perfect," I tell him honestly. "Exactly what I needed. What I wanted."
He looks unconvinced but doesn't argue. Instead, he reaches for a bottle of shampoo. His fingers in my hair feels indescribably good, massaging my scalp with just the right pressure. I close my eyes, surrendering to the sensation.
When he's finished washing my hair, he helps me rinse, one large hand shielding my eyes from the water he pours from a cup.
After helping me from the tub, he wraps me in a large, soft towel, rubbing gentle circles on my back as I snuggle into the warmth.
"I should find you something else to wear," he says, looking at the discarded clothes on the floor. They were the only ones that survived the fire. "Those won't do. Do you need help dressing?"
"I can manage," I assure him, suddenly wanting a moment alone to process everything that's happened.
He nods, pressing a kiss to my forehead that feels unexpectedly intimate. "Take whatever you need from my closet. I'll make us something to eat."
Oh, right. We were supposed to be making breakfast.
After he leaves, I lean against the counter, studying my reflection in the mirror. My lips are slightly swollen, a flush still lingering on my chest, small marks on my hips where his fingers pressed into my skin.
I look like a woman who's been thoroughly loved. The romance novelist in me appreciates the visual narrative; the woman in me is still processing the reality of it.
After drying off, I wrap the towel around myself and venture into his bedroom to find clothes. The room is as ordered as the rest of the cabin. The only decorative items are a few framed photographs on the dresser.
I open a drawer, finding neatly folded t-shirts, and borrow one that will hang like a dress on my smaller frame. As I close the drawer, my gaze returns to the photographs.
One shows a younger Alex standing between two other men. They look happy, carefree in a way I haven't seen on Alex's face. The next shows them in front of a house I don't recognize, holding up beers in a toast.
With a start, I realize these must be Mike and Jason—the roommates he lost in the fire. I pick up the cookout photo, studying their faces. One is tall and lanky with glasses, the other stockier with a wide grin. Both look young, full of life.
"What are you doing?"
Alex's voice from the doorway makes me jump. I fumble the frame, nearly dropping it before setting it back on the dresser.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I was just looking for a shirt and saw the photos."
His expression closes off completely, the openness from our bath time together vanished behind a mask of controlled displeasure.
"Those are private," he says stiffly.
"I didn't mean to intrude." I clutch the towel tighter around me. "I was just curious about them. About Mike and Jason."
His jaw tightens. "They're not a topic for discussion."
"Alex, I understand grief."
"No, you don't," he interrupts, his voice sharp. "You don't understand anything about it."
The sudden coldness hurts more than I expected. "That's not fair. I was just trying to help."
"Help? Psychoanalyze me? Use my past for your novel?"
I recoil as if slapped. "That's a terrible thing to say."
"Is it?" He gestures toward the photos. "You're a writer. Everything's material to people like you."
"People like me?" My initial hurt transforms rapidly into anger. "You didn't seem to have a problem with 'people like me' when you were taking my virginity in your kitchen."
His walls come back up, higher than before. “Get dressed. I'll be in the kitchen."
He turns to leave, but I'm not ready to let this go. "You don't get to do that."
He pauses, back still to me. "Do what?"
"Shut down. Push me away because I accidentally touched something painful." I drop the towel and pull his t-shirt over my head, finding courage in my anger. "I'm not trying to invade your privacy or use your pain. I just want to know you."
Before he can respond, a sharp electronic tone cuts through the tension. His radio.
"Brennan here," he answers, all business now.
I can't make out the words from the other end, but I see his posture change, shoulders squaring, focus narrowing.
"Coordinates?" he asks, already moving toward his closet. "ETA?"
As he listens to the response, he pulls out what looks like a go-bag and specialized clothing.
"Emergency?" I ask when he clicks off the radio.
"Hiker down on the north ridge," he confirms, already changing into his SAR gear with efficient movements. "Helicopter extraction required."
I step back, giving him space to prepare. "How long will you be gone?"
"Hard to say. Six hours minimum. Could be overnight depending on weather and location." He glances at me, his expression softening slightly. "Will you be okay here?"
The fact that he's asking, that he's concerned about me despite our argument, makes some of my anger dissipate. "I'll be fine. I have writing to do anyway."
He nods, checking his equipment one last time before heading toward the door. He pauses at the threshold, looking back at me.
"We're not done with this conversation," he says, voice less harsh than before.
"Good," I reply. "Because I'm not done with you."
Something that might be a smile tugs at his mouth before he's gone, the front door closing behind him with a decisive click.
I stand in his bedroom, wearing his shirt, surrounded by evidence of his carefully ordered life and the ghosts of his past. The cabin suddenly feels too large and too quiet without his presence.
I move to the window, watching as his truck pulls away down the mountain road, emergency lights flashing against the darkening sky.
The irony isn't lost on me: after years of creating fictional men who rush into danger while my heroines wait for their return, I'm living that reality. Except in my novels, I control the outcome. In real life, I have no idea what happens next.
I turn away from the window, gathering the borrowed clothes and my laptop. If I can't control what happens when Alex returns, I can at least control what happens to the characters in my novel.