His words hang in the air, but they don’t offer the comfort I need. He doesn’t get to apologize. Not after what he’s done. Not after the way he’s crossed every line. But even as my mind screams at him, as I tell myself that I should hate him for this, my body betrays me.
I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop shaking.
I keep my hands over my face, not wanting him to see me like this, but I can feel his presence getting closer. I’m shocked when I feel the water shift, and then his arms wrap around me, gently pulling me against him. I can feel the wet fabric of his clothes pressing against my bare skin, and for a moment, I’m too stunned to react. He’s stepped into the shower with me, fully dressed, his clothes now soaking wet, but his arms are holding me tightly, as if he’s afraid to let go.
I don’t understand why I’m allowing him to do this. I don’t understandanythinganymore.
I should push him away. I should scream at him, yell, do something to make him understand howwrongthis all is. But instead, I stand here, leaning against his chest, my body trembling, my sobs muffled by the fabric of his shirt. As much as I hate myself for it, as much as I want topunch him, to make him feel even a fraction of the fear and confusion I’ve felt, I can’t deny that in this moment ... I need him.
I need him to hold me. I need to feel like someone is here, like someone cares.
I think this might have been a terrible miscommunication.
The thought offers a small sense of solace, something to hold on to in the midst of this emotional storm.
“When you told me about your book,” Saint begins, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it, “I thought you were asking me to—”
I shake my head quickly, interrupting him before he can finish. “I know,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from crying. I’m too exhausted, too emotionally drained to rehash every detail of what happened. “I know,” I say again, because in a way, I do know. Ididask for something—I just didn’t know it would unfold like this.
I lower my hands from my face, letting them fall naturally around him. My arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and I press my cheek against the wet fabric of his shirt. The heat from his body seeps into mine, and for a moment, I let myself feel comforted by his presence. I can’t tell if that makes me weak or if it’s just what I need right now, but I don’t let go. I hold on tighter.
“I don’t know if that’s what I was asking you,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “What we’ve been doing ... it’s confusing. I barely know you, and then this ...” My words trail off as the load of everything settles on my shoulders. The whirlwind of emotions, the passion, the fear—it’s all too much. I barely recognize my own feelings anymore, let alone understand what I’ve been asking of him.
Saint presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, and then he just holds me. Quietly. Steadily. No words. Just the warmth of his arms around me, the steady rhythm of his breathing against my hair, the feeling of being anchored after having been adrift for too long.
We stay like this for several minutes, the sound of the shower cascading around us, washing away the tension in small, soothing waves.My tears finally begin to subside, and I take a deep breath, pulling away slightly to look up at him. His eyes are filled with remorse, and I can see how much he regrets what happened, how much he wishes he could take it back. There’s a tenderness there that tugs at something deep inside me.
He lifts a hand to my face and gently brushes his thumb under my eye, wiping away the smudges of mascara that have streaked down my cheeks from all the crying. His touch is so soft, so careful, and it’s in this moment that I realize he wasn’t trying to hurt me. He never wanted to scare me. He just ... misunderstood. Like I did.
He was just trying to help me. To push me into a feeling I’ve never experienced before.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice thick with sincerity. “Truly. That night, I thought you were going into detail about what happens to Reya because it was your way of ... I don’t know. Giving me instructions.”
For the first time since I met him, I feel embarrassment coming from him.
I nod slowly, feeling the stiffness between us start to loosen, the fear dissolving into something softer. “Okay,” I say, my voice fragile but certain. “Just ... make sure I’m actually asking you to do something before you do it from now on. Don’t assume.” There’s a slight tremor in my voice, a residual trace of the panic I felt earlier, but I mean what I say.
His expression softens even more. “I promise.” His hand remains on my cheek, his thumb gently stroking the skin there, as if he’s trying to reassure me, to ground me in this moment. He searches my eyes, and then he asks, “Do you want me to leave?”
The question hangs in the air, and for a split second, I consider it. Part of me thinks I should tell him to go. That I need space to process what just happened, to get a handle on my emotions. But I can’t bring myself to say the words. As much as I was terrified of him a few minutes ago, it wasn’thimI was scared of. It was the character he was playing. The situation we both created, however unintentionally.
I can’t fault him for that. Not entirely.
I shake my head, quickly, instinctively. “No,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “But can we just ... I don’t want to pretend tonight.” I’m too tired to keep up the charade. I don’t have the energy to slip into the roles we’ve been playing. Tonight, I just want things to be simple and real.
Saint nods, understanding flashing in his eyes. He pulls me back against his chest, his arms wrapping around me again, and whispers, “Okay. Let’s just be us.”
Just us.
That shouldn’t make me feel as good as it does. After everything that’s happened, after the fear and confusion and all the lines we’ve crossed, I shouldn’t be able to find comfort in those words. But somehow, I do. A warmth spreads through me, something unexpected but welcome. His words seep into me, soothing my anxiety, and for the first time since he stepped into this shower, I feel a little bit of peace.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, pressing his lips to my forehead. “So sorry.”
“I know,” I reply. And I do know. I can feel his remorse in every touch, every word, and while I know it’s not enough to erase what happened, it’s enough for now. Enough to help me breathe again.
I start to orient myself more to the situation. I realize just how bright it is as I stand here, water dripping off my skin under the downpour of the shower, acutely aware of every inch of my body exposed in front of him. Other than a few heated kisses, I’m not sure I’ve experienced enough with this man to feel comfortable being completely naked under his gaze, especially in the bright light of this bathroom. It’s an odd vulnerability that I can’t shake.
How am I supposed to get out of this shower without his eyes being fully on me?
