I felt alive.
Steam still clung to my skin as I stepped out of the shower, legs barely holding me. My pulse felt like it had melted and rewired itself in the shape of his name. Dane wrapped a towel around my shoulders from behind, his hands lingering at the edges, fingertips brushing the inside of my arms like he was learning me by touch alone.
Neither of us spoke at first. Silence wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It felt earned.
I wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror and stood there, breath unsteady, while he tied his own towel low around his hips. Drops of water slid down his torso, tracing over muscle and ink before disappearing into the cotton. My breath caught when he stepped behind me again, eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
Those eyes. Storm and warmth. Steady as a vow.
Without a word, Dane picked up my hairbrush from the counter. His fingers slid into my damp hair, combing through the strands gently. Reverent, almost.
“You don’t…you don’t have to do that,” I whispered, throat tight.
“Peach,” he murmured, voice velvet-warm, “I’ve been waiting my whole damn life to do things no one ever bothered to do for you.”
The brush moved slowly through my hair. Long strokes. Soft patience.
I swallowed around the ache rising in my chest. “It’s…intimate,” I managed.
“It’s meant to be.”
His eyes stayed locked on mine in the mirror. Something shifted between us. Something that felt like truth.
When he finished, he pressed a kiss to the top of my damp head and wrapped his arms around my waist, his chin lowering to my shoulder. Our reflections leaned into each other like we’d done it for years.
“You good?” he murmured.
“For the first time in a long time… yeah.”
He squeezed once, slid his hands down my waist, and stepped back. “Come on. Before I drag you back into that shower and we don't make it to the porch.”
A small, breathy laugh escaped me.
We dressed slowly—soft cotton, warm skin, stolen glances. Every brush of his fingers along my back or hip felt like a secret being sworn, one neither of us had words for yet.
The house felt smaller, gentler as we moved through it—like it knew us now. Dane made himself a coffee and heated peach tea for me, the scent filling the kitchen like summer remembered. He passed me the mug, his fingers brushing mine.
We stepped onto the porch, a night breeze rolling through the eucalyptus leaves. The old loveseat creaked when I sat, and I tucked one leg under myself as Dane settled near, bodies angled toward one another.
“You need to finish it,” he said softly, nodding toward my laptop. “Carrie will hunt you down if it’s not on her desk at nine.”
“She really will,” I muttered, sipping my tea. “I’ve seen the look.”
“Then write,” he grinned, touching my knee. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And he didn’t. I opened the laptop, and the catfish story spilled out of me—raw, sharp, fruit bruising under the skin. The truths I’d let fester. The lies I’d swallowed. The slow rot of loving someone who devoured my edges.
Dane sat beside me, reading emails, returning calls, setting things right with his world while letting me unravel mine onto the page.
At one point he muttered, “Melbourne’s behind again,” and rolled his eyes in a way that made me laugh despite the heaviness of the words I was typing.
Hours passed like warm rain. Soft. Steady. Necessary.
When I finally closed the laptop, exhausted and satisfied, Dane looked over and whispered, “Finished?”
“Finished.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice rough velvet.
