"Stay."
"I'll be right back."
"No—"
But he's already slipping out of me, and I gasp at the loss, the sudden emptiness. He presses a kiss to my forehead—gentle, so gentle compared to everything that came before—and slides off the bed.
"Where are you going?"
He doesn't answer. Just disappears through the bedroom door.
I lie there, boneless and wrecked, staring at the ceiling. My body aches in places I didn't know could ache. Between my thighs, I'm sore and swollen and still throbbing. I can feel him leaking out of me.
Water runs somewhere in the cottage. The bathroom. I close my eyes, assuming he's cleaning himself up. Fair enough. He's probably a mess too.
The water keeps running. Longer than it should for just washing up.
The bedroom door opens. I turn my head.
He's wearing sweatpants now. Nothing else. His chest is still heaving slightly, sweat glistening on green skin. Without a word, he crosses to the bed and scoops me up.
"Diesel—what—"
"Shh."
"I can walk—"
"Didn't ask."
He carries me down the hall, my naked body pressed against his bare chest. I should protest more, but I'm too wrung out to fight. Too content to be held.
The bathroom is small and steamy. The tub—the same claw-foot I've showered in every day—is filling with hot water. The steam rises and the heat calls to my aching muscles.
"What are you doing?"
He doesn't answer. Just lowers me into the water with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. It's hot. Almost too hot. But the moment I sink into it, my muscles unclench and I groan.
"Oh god."
"Yeah." He turns off the tap. "Thought so."
"How did you—" I shift in the water, feeling the heat seep into all the places that are sore and used. "This is... this is exactly what I needed."
"You're going to feel it tomorrow." His voice is matter-of-fact. "The soak will help."
I watch him through half-lidded eyes as he opens the cabinet, pulls out a bar of soap and a washcloth. Then he lowers himself to the floor beside the tub, kneeling on the tile. It can't becomfortable—he's too big for the space, knees pressing against the porcelain, but he doesn't seem to care.
"How do you know?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
A glance at me. "Know what?"
"That I'd need this. That it would help." I bite my lip. "Have you... done this before? With human women?"
He dips the washcloth in the water, starts working the soap into it. A flicker of something crosses his face.
"No."
I wait.
