“Don’t,” I muttered, voice a little shaky. “Don’t go too far.”
He didn’t — he just moved around the room in this slow, purposeful way — like he was trying not to spook me. When he came back, towel in hand, I almost laughed. It was ridiculous and sweet and awkward all at once.
He knelt in front of me, hair sticking up in soft, damp curls, eyes dark and heavy and so unbearably kind.
“What — you’re gonna…?”
He hesitated, eyes flicking up to mine. “Yeah. If you’ll let me.”
If I’lllet him.
God, when was the last time anyone had asked me something like that? Not in the bedroom. Not ever.
I tried to joke it off. “You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet, huh?”
But then he smiled, soft and almost shy, and started anyway — slowly, carefully wiping the inside of my thigh. His big, steady hands shook a little, which made me feel both seen and undone.
“Jesus, you don’t have to?—”
“Colette.” His voice was low, a warning wrapped in gentleness. “Let me.”
So I did.
The towel was warm where the fire had kissed it, and the sensation was… tender. Too tender. I wanted to squirm or crack a joke, but all that came out was a soft, trembling breath. He didn’t look at me like I was fragile. He looked at me like he was trying to make sure I didn’t vanish.
“You’re — uh — really thorough,” I whispered, which made him laugh under his breath.
“Occupational hazard,” he said. “Writer’s hands. Detail-oriented.”
That shouldn’t have made my chest ache the way it did.
When he finished, he handed me the towel wordlessly, sitting back on his heels like he wasn’t sure what to do next. So I swallowed, gathered what little nerve I had left, and leaned forward to wipe a smear of sweat and glitter from his jaw.
He froze. Not because he didn’t want it, but because it surprised him — like no one had ever thought to return the favor.
“See?” I said softly. “Mutual clean-up clause.”
“Very official,” he murmured, lips curving. “I’ll remember that.”
We both laughed, too quietly, and then the silence returned — warm, a little clumsy, full of things we weren’t ready to name.
By the time we crawled under the blankets, the towel had fallen somewhere on the floor. I didn’t care. He smelled like pine and soap and something distinctlyhim, and when he pulled me against his chest, I felt his heartbeat against my back.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel used up or dirty.
I just felt held.
The fire was down to embers.
The kind that pulsed in the dark like a heartbeat.
I lay curled against him, our legs tangled, his arm heavy around my waist. My hair was still damp from the bath — or maybe fromhim.I couldn’t tell anymore where one warmth ended and the next began.
His breath brushed the back of my neck, slow and steady. Every exhale raised goosebumps on my skin.
“You’re still awake,” he murmured.
“Barely.” My voice came out husky, frayed around the edges.
