The tears come, hot and unstoppable, spilling faster than I can catch them. I don’t sob often—I don’t let myself—but with my face buried in his chest, the fight drains out of me. The walls I’ve carried for years crumble like they were never there.
I cry for the child who ran at twelve, for the girl who learned survival was the only language anyone would listen to. I cry for the woman who’s still terrified that one wrong step will put her back in chains.
Niko doesn’t hush me. He doesn’t tell me to stop. He just holds me tighter, his hand sliding slowly up my back, his heart beating a solid rhythm against my cheek.
By the time my tears finally quiet, I’m completely melted against him—bone-deep exhausted, but weightless in a way I’ve never felt before.
For the first time in a very long time, I let myself believe I’m not carrying it all alone.
Niko doesn’t say a word when he moves. He just gathers me into his arms like I weigh nothing, like carrying me is the most natural thing in the world. My cheek presses against his chest, and I can hear his heartbeat—steady, unshaken—while mine feels like it’s clawing out of my ribcage.
He carries me into the bathroom. The light is soft, golden against the tiles, and the sound of the shower fills the silence between us. He doesn’t put me down right away. He just stands there, holding me, like maybe he knows I’m not ready to let go.
When he finally lowers me to the floor, he doesn’t step back. He kneels, his body still enclosing mine, his hands moving slowly as if every gesture is deliberate. He reaches for the hem of my shirt. I don’t stop him. I can’t. My arms are too heavy, my heart too full. Piece by piece, he strips me down, peeling away the clothes like they’re layers of something I’ve been dragging with me for years.
When he’s done, he pulls his own shirt over his head, then unbuttons his pants. He doesn’t rush. There’s nothing urgent about it. Just quiet resolve, like this isn’t about desire or lust but about being bare with me. Entirely.
The water is already running, steam curling through the air. He draws me under the spray, and the first rush makes me gasp—it’s hot, almost too hot—but he doesn’t move. He just pulls me closer, letting the water drench us both until it soaks through to my bones.
He tips my chin up. The water washes over my face, over the salt of my tears. His thumb brushes them away even though they’re already gone. Then his hands move, slow and careful, bathing me. Not like a man bathing a woman, but like someone tending to something fragile, something he refuses to break.
I didn’t know I needed this. To be touched without demand. To be cared for without strings. My chest feels too tight, my heart heavy yet full, like it can’t decide whether to shatter or overflow.
The water scalds his skin—I can feel it—but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t complain. He just stays there, holding me against him, as though my pain outweighs his.
I bury my face into him, the heat, the water, his arms. And for the first time in years, I let myself melt. I let myself believe I don’t have to carry everything alone.
When his fingers tilt my chin up, I see something in his eyes I’ve never seen before—raw, open emotion—and it shatters me.
He kisses me, slow and possessive, his mouth moving over mine with a gentleness that undoes me more than any roughness ever could. His lips coax, his tongue teases, and I melt. My hands fist in his wet hair, desperate to keep him close, to never lose this anchor he’s suddenly become.
When he presses me back against the tiled wall, his body slick against mine, I can feel every ridge of muscle, every hard line. He cups my face like I’m breakable, though we both know I’m anything but. His other hand slides down my side, lingering at my hip before pulling my leg around his waist.
The moment he enters me, I gasp, clinging to him. The water makes everything hot, slippery, overwhelming. He moves slowly, carefully, as if every thrust is a question, and my body answers him with soft, trembling moans.
He kisses me through it, swallowing my sounds, his forehead pressed to mine. “I’ve got you,” he breathes, again and again, and every time, the words sink deeper, undoing knots I thought would never loosen.
I wrap both legs around him, drawing him in deeper, needing all of him. My nails scrape down his back, and instead of pulling away, he groans, the sound vibrating against my mouth. His rhythm stays unhurried, tender, every movement filled with something I can’t name but feel everywhere.
The pressure builds low in my belly, winding tighter with every roll of his hips, every brush of his thumb along my skin. When it finally breaks, I cry out his name, trembling apart in hisarms. He holds me through it, thrusting deep once, twice, before shuddering against me with a groan that sounds like surrender.
The water keeps pouring, steam clouding the room, but all I can feel is him—his heartbeat against mine, his breath hot at my ear, his arms locked around me like he’ll never let go.
And that’s when it hits me, sharp and terrifying.
I’m falling in love with him.
Not because he’s saved me. Not because he’s strong enough to break the world in half if I asked. But because, for the first time in my life, someone has touched me like I’m not a weapon, not a cage, not a survivor—but a woman who can be loved.
When it’s over, he doesn’t let me go. Not even for a second.
The water keeps pouring down, washing away the tremors from my body, but he’s still holding me like I might vanish if he loosens his grip. My cheek is pressed against his chest, and all I can hear is the thundering rhythm of his heart.
Finally, he turns off the water. The silence that follows is thick, only broken by the sound of our ragged breathing. He presses a kiss to the top of my head before reaching for a towel. I expect him to hand it to me, to step away and give me space—but instead, he wraps it around me himself, gently blotting the water from my skin as though I can’t do it on my own.
My throat tightens. No one has ever taken care of me like this. Not once.
When he’s finished with me, he dries himself quickly, then scoops me into his arms again. I’m too drained to protest, too undone to even pretend I want to. I just rest my head against his shoulder, watching the soft sway of light across the floor as he carries me out of the bathroom.
