“I’ll take care of you,” he says. There’s no hesitation in it. Just promise. “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone again.”
I want to believe him. I want to lean into those words and let them carry the weight for a while. But grief claws through me like smoke in my lungs, thick and choking and endless.
I shake my head, teeth clenched. “But my bakery.”
“I know,” he says softly. “But I promise you, we’ll get through this. Come on,” he says softly, brushing his knuckles down my arm. “Take this off.” His voice doesn’t hold an ounce of demand—just quiet care. He helps me out of the oversized clothes with a kind of gentleness I’m not used to from him. No urgency. Noheat. Just hands that move like they’re afraid I’ll crack open if he’s too fast.
My borrowed clothes hit the floor, and his eyes sweep over me—not with lust, but something deeper. Something reverent. Like he’s taking in every burn mark, every scrape, and memorizing them like proof that I’m still here.
I step into the tub, the water warm against my skin, and sink down slowly. The heat wraps around me, and loosens something in my chest.
Then he peels off his shirt. I can’t not look. His torso is sculpted and covered in intricate ink, powerful and real, the kind of body that looks like it could shield the whole damn world. He undoes his jeans, pushes them down, then steps out of them and into the tub with me.
He lowers behind me, the water rising to the edge, sloshing over as he pulls me against him. His chest is solid against my back, his arms anchoring me with a kind of strength that doesn’t ask anything in return.
His breath warms the curve of my shoulder. And little by little, my lungs stop fighting me.
We stay like that. Skin to skin. I feel him shift behind me, the water rocking gently around us. Then the quiet sound of a bottle flipping open. Damian pours a pool of shampoo into his hand, and the scent—something clean and citrusy—drifts up between us. I close my eyes.
His fingers touch my scalp, slow and gentle, moving through my hair with a kind of tenderness I’m not used to. There’s no rush, no tension, just slow circles and the occasional sweep of his fingers down the length of it, untangling it with a patience he never gives anything else.
My shoulders slowly start to loosen under the rhythm. It’s so intimate I almost want to cry again. Not because it hurts, but because it doesn’t. Because for the first time since the fire,my body doesn’t feel like it’s in fight or flight mode. I’m not flinching. I’m not curling in on myself.
I’m letting him take care of me.
The pads of his fingers move behind my ears, trace the curve of my scalp. His thumbs press gently at the base of my skull, massaging there until I melt further into him. His thighs bracket mine, warm and solid. His chest is a steady wall against my back, his breathing syncing with mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You always do that,” he murmurs low against my neck.
“Do what?”
“Hold tension in your shoulders. Like you’re bracing for something. You do it even in your sleep.”
“I always am bracing for something,” I whisper.
His hands are still in my hair. Gentle. Intentional. Like he’s memorizing the feel of each strand between his fingers. He presses a kiss to the back of my soapy head, lips warm against my scalp.
Then he shifts behind me.
I hear the soft click of the faucet switch and the rush of water changing direction. He grabs the handheld showerhead from its hook and tests the temperature with his wrist before bringing it over.
“Close your eyes for me,” he murmurs.
I do.
Warm water trickles down my hairline, cascading over my scalp and neck, rinsing the suds away in fast, hot waves. His hand cradles the back of my head while the other angles the spray, guiding the water so nothing gets in my eyes.
His touch never leaves me.
Not for a second.
And for the first time all day, I feel the panic ease from my ribs, the tension slip from my shoulders, as if the heat of hishands and the water washing over me is enough to remind my body it’s safe now.
Then he flips off the water and reaches for the bar of soap resting on the edge of the tub, working it between his hands until it lathers.
I watch the way the suds cling to his knuckles, split and raw, the skin still crusted with dried blood from the windshield. “Doesn’t that hurt?” I ask, my voice soft. “Holding the soap?”
He grunts out a small chuckle. “I’m fine, Angel.”
