I nod toward the tub. “You okay with this? Tell me if it’s too much.”
She nods, sliding into the water with a soft hiss when the heat closes over her skin.
I slowly strip, giving her everychance to look. Her focus flicks up just once, but it’s enough for me to catch the rush of color in her cheeks and a trace of nerves she can’t quite hide.
She shifts in the water, caught between leaning toward me and retreating.
“Hey,” I say softly, letting my palm skim her knee. “It’s just me, Trouble. We go at your pace.”
For a beat, she studies me, deciding whether to believe that. Then her shoulders loosen—barely, but enough.
I step in behind her, letting the water rise around us. The heat seeps into my muscles, but it’s her I’m tuned to—her spine pressed to my chest, her damp hair brushing my jaw, the subtle weight of her resting here because she chose to.
It would be so easy to slide my hand higher. To make her gasp. To take. Instead, I reach for the sponge, dragging it slowly over her arm, across her collarbone, letting the water bead and run between her breasts. My other hand rests steady on her thigh—no pressure, no push, just a quiet promise that I’m here and she’s safe.
“Good girl,” I murmur, almost to myself. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t move away.
I could push. God, I want to. But I like knowing I can have her unravel when I choose—and that tonight isn’t the night.
So I keep my tone light, lips close to her ear. “Someday soon, Trouble, you’re going to show me exactly what you like.” Her fingers curl faintly on the edge of the tub. I smile against her hair. “And when you do…I’ll make damn sure you get every last bit of it.”
The scent of lavender curls in the steam. She tilts her head against my shoulder, eyelids fluttering. I take my time, washing her in slow, unhurried strokes, because the pointisn’t just to clean her, but to keep her here, in this quiet space where the rest of the world doesn’t matter. By the time I pull the plug, her body is loose against mine, steam enveloping us.
I step out first, wrap a towel around my waist, then offer her one. She lets me lift her free, her skin flushed and dewy. I towel her off carefully, and she lets me—lets me guide her into the bedroom and pull the covers back.
Afternoon light slants across the bed, painting her in gold. I grab a hoodie from the dresser and hand it to her. She slips it over her head, drowning in the fabric. I slide in beside her, propping myself on one elbow. Curled on her side, knees drawn up, she’s the picture of someone who wants to believe she’s just resting but is already sinking deeper. I can feel her retreat starting.
“Don’t,” I say quietly, tightening my hold. “Don’t disappear on me, Trouble.”
For a while, we don’t talk. She shifts just enough for her head to rest against my chest, hair spilling over my skin. My hand drifts along her arm, tracing the faint rise of goosebumps.
Her breathing evens out, but not all the way. She’s caught between relaxing into me and holding on to whatever guard she thinks she’s supposed to keep.
I tilt my chin to rest against the top of her head. “I like you here,” I say, voice low enough that it rumbles through both of us. “In my bed. Where you belong.”
That earns me a small, shaky laugh. “We should probably...finish the PT session. Before I head back.”
“Pretty sure we’re good for one day,” I say, brushing my thumb over the inside of her arm. “Besides, I did the drills you gave me before you came.”
Her head tips back to look at me, the barest curvetugging at her lips. “So you planned this? Jumping me mid-session?”
I let my grin go unapologetic. “Planned it the second I got my session moved to the afternoon—figured you’d be much more open to me getting my hands on you once I had you on my turf.”
Her brows lift, amused. “And if I hadn’t been?”
My thumb skates along the inside of her arm; her pulse kicks. “Then I’d have walked you to the door, behaved, and spent the rest of the day plotting my next move. Either way, I get there, Trouble.”
Before she can answer, I push up from the bed, catching her hand. “Come on, baby. Food first. Then I’ll get you home so you can pack for tomorrow.”
She looks at me hesitantly, and I realize that convincing her this is real—that we’re real—is going to be the hardest battle of my life.
But I’m not backing down. Not when I finally have her in my bed.
20
THE LINE (NATE, AGE 17)
The flames have burned low, painting everyone’s faces in orange and shadow. The speaker keeps cutting out, so mostly it’s waves and Max Miller running his mouth.
