Silence stretched.Thick.Pressurized.
He took one step into the room.Then another.Each one measured.Deliberate.Like he was walking toward a line he’d sworn not to cross.
“You handled yourself tonight,” he said.“With Bane.”
I had wondered when he would bring it up.My pulse stuttered.“I didn’t do it for you.”
“I know.”
That landed harder than praise.
He stopped a few feet away.Close enough that I could smell him—clean, sharp, familiar.Leather.Cedar.Something darker beneath it.
“You didn’t look for permission,” he continued.“You didn’t provoke.You chose.”
My throat tightened.“I didn’t want to be tested anymore.”
His jaw flexed.“Neither did I.”
The air between us shifted.
No longer adversarial.
No longer brittle.
Just...taut.
I adjusted my grip on the towel, suddenly aware of how exposed I was—not naked but seen.He noticed.His gaze flicked to my hands, then back to my face.
“You don’t need that,” he said quietly.
“For modesty?”I asked.
“For armor.”
Something inside me loosened.
I let the towel fall...honestly.
Creed’s breath caught.Not a sharp inhale, something deeper, like restraint slipping its teeth.
I didn’t move toward him.I waited.
He crossed the remaining distance in one smooth stride.
His hands came up to frame my face.Warm.Steady.Reverent in a way that startled me.
“This isn’t punishment,” he said.
“I know.”
“This isn’t forgiveness either.”
“I know that too.”
His forehead rested briefly against mine, a quiet surrender of weight, of tension.
“But this,” he murmured, “is release.”
