“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, voice rough with gravel.
“Too bad,” I reply, and tilt my chin up. “You’ve got me anyway.”
He kisses me then. Not with heat or hunger the way it often is. This kiss is soft. Slow. His lips linger, tracing the shape of mine with care. Or like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. His hand trembles just slightly where it cradles my jaw.
When he pulls back, his voice is quiet. “I need to wash this night off me.”
“Then let’s do it together.”
We move to the bathroom without another word. The light is low, golden and warm. He starts the shower, and I pull my shirt over my head. His eyes flick to the tattoo inked along my ribs—small, delicate, barely visible in the low light—but I catch the way his jaw tightens anyway. His fists curl at his sides, the need to reach out written in every line of him. He wants to touch it, trace every line, memorize the story it tells without ever asking for the words.
He doesn’t comment. He just undresses with me in a silence that feels sacred.
When the water steams and curls into the air, we step in. It’s not sexual. Not even close. It’s something quieter. More sacred. A confession carried in heat and water.
He pours shampoo into his hands and begins to wash my hair, starting at the roots and working carefully through the thick curls. His fingers move gently, separating each coil, showing me he knows how easy it would be to hurt me if he rushed. He doesn’t. Malachi massages my scalp with careful pressure, drawing a soft sigh from me before reaching for the conditioner. I tilt my head, letting him apply it. Something about the way his touch lingers—memorizing the texture of me—makes my chest ache. Letting him do this, letting him see this part of me, feels like handing over something sacred. He treats it accordingly.
“I didn’t know Cornelius kept anything,” he says eventually. “Not in that way. Not somewhere so… hidden.”
“You were just a kid,” I say again, rinsing the conditioner out. “He didn’t want you involved. He was protecting you.”
“Protecting me cost him his life.”
“And it gave you yours.” I look up at him. “He made sure you lived. That matters too.”
He nods slowly, and I trade places with him under the spray, running my fingers through his hair as I massage shampoo into his scalp. His eyes flutter closed, breath hitching just slightly. I watch a drop trail from his temple down the curve of his neck, and I want to kiss it away. The vulnerability in his posture makes my chest ache.
“I used to dream about them,” he says quietly. “My brother and sister. But in the dreams, they always came back older. Changed. I wouldn’t recognize their faces, but I’d know it was them.”
My fingers freeze. “Do you think they’re still alive?”
“I have to.” He opens his eyes. There’s a storm behind them, but I don’t look away. “I think I’d know if they weren’t,” he adds. “Some part of me would feel it. The same way I feel you.”
I trace the edge of his jaw with my thumb. “Then we find them. Together.”
After we rinse, I grab a towel and wrap it around him first. He does the same for me, fingers brushing the damp curls from my face. We dry off in silence—unhurried, intimate—and drop the towels onto the chair near the window. Neither of us reach for clothes.
We climb into bed naked, the cotton sheets cool against our still-warm skin. Our bodies curve into each other naturally, our movements synced as if this closeness were long practiced. His hand traces the curve of my back while my fingers skim the scar near his hip. The one he never talks about. I press my lips to it, slowly and lovingly, then feel the breath he releases against my temple, a vow that doesn’t need words.
“That box,” he says after a long moment. “It changed everything.”
“Not everything,” I say. “We’re still here. Still fighting.”
His fingers tilt my chin until I’m looking at him. “I love you, Sour Patch.”
The words take my breath. “Say it again.”
“I love you. Even when you hate me. Or when I fuck everything up. Even when I didn’t see what was happening with your dad. I should’ve. But I was buried in grief and trying to be the president this club needed. Though that’s not an excuse. I should’ve seen you. Protected you. And I’m sorry.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes. I blink fast and press my lips to his jaw.
“I love you too,” I whisper. But my voice cracks. Because it did hurt. Not just what happened, but how he didn’t see it. How no one did. How I felt invisible, a ghost standing in a room full of men who promised to protect their own.
“I hated you,” I admit, breath trembling. “For a long time. Because you didn’t see it. And if you didn’t? Then no one ever would.”
His arms tighten around me, but he doesn’t interrupt. He lets me say it. Lets me feel it.
“But you’re here now,” I finish, my fingers curling against his chest. “That matters more than the rest of it ever did.”
