She studies my face. “What are you thinking about?”
I meet her eyes and don’t dodge it. “That I don’t want this to be small. Or temporary.”
Her breath catches just slightly. “Me neither,” she says.
Something settles deep in my chest at the way she says it, sure and steady, like we both already know where this is going.
“Are you saying you’re mine, Javier?” she asks, eyes warm but searching.
“Baby,” I murmur, my thumb brushing her jaw, “I’ve been yours a hell of a lot longer than you realize. But yeah. I’m yours. And you’re fucking mine.”
One brow lifts slowly, that familiar spark of trouble lighting her eyes. “Am I?” she asks, all teasing challenge and wicked curiosity.
Her voice keeps looping in my head like it got lodged there on purpose.
I really like being taken care of.
It wasn’t dramatic. Just honest. Soft against my chest while the water ran over our shoulders, like she trusted me with something small that was actually big.
My fingers tighten slightly around the fork as I glance at her on the counter, wrapped in my shirt, bare feet swinging, completely at ease in my space. She’s talking about something random, some half-finished thought that makes her hands move when she talks, animated and warm and very much herself.
I spear a bite without saying anything and lift it toward her.
She doesn’t notice at first, still mid-sentence, until her eyes flick to the fork. Her words trail off. Then she looks back at me.
A slow smile curves her mouth. “You serious right now?”
I tip the fork a little closer in answer, lifting a brow like this is exactly where it belongs.
She laughs under her breath, something soft and surprised in it, but leans in anyway. Her lips part as she takes the bite, teeth brushing the metal lightly, her gaze never leaving mine. I catch the way her lashes flutter when she chews, the way her shoulders ease, the way something quiet settles into her expression like her body recognizes care before her mind can catch up.
“Wow,” she murmurs once she swallows. “Guess I’m being spoiled for real.”
The word lands warm and steady in my chest.
I set the fork down just long enough to brush my thumb across the corner of her mouth, wiping away a tiny smear she missed. The touch is gentle without me thinking about it.
“Eat,” I tell her quietly. “I made it for you.”
She studies me for a second longer than necessary, something thoughtful and tender flickering behind her eyes. Then she nods, that soft, almost shy smile slipping back into place, and lets me feed her the next bite without another word.
And something in my chest settles deeper, heavier in the best way.
Maybe she’s used to being the one in control. Maybe that’s what kept her standing when no one else did. But watching the way she leans into this, into being cared for instead of carrying everything alone, makes something protective and certain lock into place inside me.
I don’t just like taking care of her. I want to be the one she doesn’t have to be strong around. There’s something in me that settles when I’m the one holding the reins, when I’m the one making sure everything is handled, safe, controlled. I’ve always been that way. The fixer. The shield. The guy who steps in front without asking if anyone needs it yet. It isn’t about ego. It’s about order. About knowing exactly where my hands belong and what they’re responsible for. And with her… it feels instinctive. Like something ancient clicking into place.
She’s used to being the one in charge. I can see it in the way she moves, the way she makes decisions without second-guessing herself, the way she carries her own weight without asking for help. Strong. Capable. Controlled.
But I don’t know if that’s who she reallyis. Or if that’s who she had to become to survive. The thought tightens something low in my chest.
I watch the way her shoulders soften when I brush past her. The way she leans into my touch without realizing it. The way her eyes go a little quieter when I take something off her plate, literal or otherwise.
Maybe she doesn’t want to be in control all the time. Maybe she’s just been the only one she could count on. The idea makes my jaw tighten, protective heat flickering under my skin. Not anger. Not rage. Something steadier. Heavier. Like responsibility settling into place.
I want to be the one she doesn’t have to hold herself up around.
I step closer without thinking, resting my hip lightly against the counter between her knees. She looks up at me, curious, a question already forming on her lips.
