Our home.
We reach the cabin just as dawn threatens the horizon. Pale light crawls across the porch as I kill the engine and set the bike steady. I climb off first, then turn to help her down.
She stumbles. I catch her.
“Easy,” I murmur, my arms wrapping around her. “I got you.”
Her hands grip my cut like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. Her lip is swollen, split at the corner. Her cheek is bruised, and there are faint bloodstains on her hoodie. But she’s alive.
I carry her inside.
She doesn’t protest.
I flick on a low light. Everything in me wants to rage, to scream, to turn back and finish what I started, put Richard Smith in the ground instead of handing him over to the law. But she needs me calm. Steady.
She needs aftercare. Not vengeance.
“I’m gonna run us a shower,” I say gently, helping her out of the hoodie. “Nice and warm. You okay with that?”
She nods, barely.
I strip down with her, careful with every piece of clothing. She flinches when the hoodie brushes the raw skin near her wrists. I curse under my breath and kiss the mark.
“I’ll take care of it,” I promise.
The shower steams up fast. I lead her in, the heat wrapping around us. She stands under the spray, eyes closed, letting the water run over her hair, her face, her bruised skin.
I grab a washcloth. “Let me?”
She nods again.
I soap her shoulders first, then her back. I wash her gently, like every inch of her is sacred. I kneel to wash her legs, gentle over the bruises, and when I reach her wrists, I press a kiss to each before cleaning them.
Her lips tremble. But she doesn’t cry.
She looks at me.
“I thought he’d break me,” she whispers.
I shake my head. “He didn’t.”
Her fingers touch my jaw, rough and tender all at once. “You came for me.”
“Always,” I say. “Every time.”
I wash her hair next, lathering shampoo into the strands, fingers massaging her scalp. She melts under the touch, leaning into me. Her eyes flutter shut. It’s the first time I’ve seen her look peaceful in hours.
When we step out, I wrap her in a towel, then grab another to dry her off. She lets me, quiet as I pat her skin dry.
I lead her to the bed, pull the covers back, and help her in.
“I need you close,” she says.
I strip out of the towel and slide in beside her, pulling her against my chest. Her head fits under my chin like it was always meant to be there.
Minutes pass.
Then she lifts her head and looks up at me.
