My hands shook as I pulled the shirt over my head. Stepped past him. Into the heat.
The mirror was fogged. Steam clung to the tile. The air was heavy, scented with soap and salt. Light pooled above the shower like confession. I stepped over the threshold, one hand on the cold marble edge, one heartbeat away from falling.
The water hit my skin like surrender. Too hot. Too clean. Too much.
Wolfe didn’t speak. He stood behind me, just outside the spray. Close enough I could feel the heat of him without the touch.
I kept my back to him. The silence between us thickened. I felt the moment he moved. A ripple in the steam. A shift in the air. His hand brushed my lower back. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just—checking. Grounding.
I flinched anyway. Reflex. Memory. Not truth. His hand didn’t move. But he didn’t pull away either.
He exhaled. Slowly. “You’re shaking.”
I nodded. Once. He reached for the soap. The sound of the bottle opening was louder than it should’ve been. He worked the lather in his hands. Careful. Slow.
Then he touched me. Water streamed down my spine. His hands followed. Over my shoulders. Down the curve of my back. He washed me like I was made of something fragile. Not because I might break. But because he already had.
Fingers trailed down the outer edge of my arm. He turned me, slowly. I let him.
His eyes met mine. And for the first time in weeks, I saw it. Fear. Not for himself. For me.
His hands moved to my ribs. He paused where the bruises still lived. He washed me in silence. Every motion deliberate. Slow. He didn’t speak until he reached my hips.
“They touched you.”
I nodded. He nodded back. His jaw flexed. That single muscle, just beneath his cheek.
But he didn’t growl. Didn’t rage. Just ran his hands down my thighs like he was learning the map all over again.
“You’re still mine,” he said.
Not a threat. Not a claim. Just truth.
I whispered, “I know.”
Then he stepped into the water. And pulled me with him.
He didn’t press me to the tile. Didn’t bend me. Didn’t shove. He just kissed me.
Mouth to mouth. No demand. No force.
Like he was asking?—
not for obedience,
not for worship,
but for proof I was still choosing him.
And I was.
Just his lips, warm and quiet, covering mine like he wasn’t sure if I’d stay.
I did.
His hand found my jaw. Tilted it slightly. His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, right where the bruise had bloomed. His breath stilled when I didn’t pull away.
And that was all it took.
