Later. Feed your woman first.
“This is… good,” she says softly as she curls both palms around the mug I hand her.
“The tea?” I ask.
“Waking up happy.” She meets my eyes. “I don’t remember the last time.”
“Get used to it.”
We eat on the couch, plates balanced on our knees, Maisie planted loyally at our feet. Sadie tears off a bite of biscuit and hands it to the dog, who swallows it whole and immediately nudges her for more.
After breakfast, I stand to take the plates to the sink. The second I lift my arm, my shoulder twinges with a sharp, familiar tug. I try to hide it, but Sadie catches the wince.
Of course she does.
I give her the old half-smile I’ve been using for years, the one that saysold injury, don’t fuss. Most people let it go.
She’s not most people.
She disappears down the hall without a word.
“Dove?” I call after her.
No answer.
A moment later, she returns with a heat pack.
She lifts it slightly. “Can I?”
Something in my chest goes tight, then soft. She’s not pitying me, no “poor broken soldier” anywhere in her face. Only quiet, competent care.
I nod.
She warms the pack under hot water, wraps it in a clean towel, then nudges me toward the couch.
I sit.
I would kneel if she asked.
My shirt rides up a little as she positions the heat pack, exposing the scar at my side. Her eyes flick there—no staring, no flinching. Just awareness.
She kneels in front of me and presses the heat exactly where I was reaching without realizing.
“More pressure?” she asks.
“A little,” I manage.
She leans in, firm and steady. The warmth sinks deep, undoing tension I didn’t know I was holding. My shoulders drop on a long exhale.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she murmurs.
We stay like that for a while, her hand warm on my shoulder, the heat loosening everything winter has tried to lock.
“Tore the muscle around the scar last winter,” I say finally. “Was chopping wood. Didn’t stop when I should’ve.”
The pack cools. She eases it away… and climbs into my lap.
No hesitation. No shyness.
