That was more than a full day ago. Add in the adrenaline, the violence, the terror of almost dying, and she's running on empty. I guide her toward the bed, but she pulls back.
"I need a shower first," she says. "I can still smell Marrakesh on me. Gunpowder and blood and that estate."
I understand. Sometimes you need to wash off the mission before you can let yourself rest. "Go. I'll be right here."
She disappears into the bathroom. A moment later, I hear water running. I strip out of my clothes, leaving them in a neat pile near the door. My weapons go on the nightstand, within easy reach. Then I follow her into the bathroom.
Steam fills the space, warm and humid. Through the glass shower door, she's standing under the spray, head bowed, hands braced against the tile. Water sluices over her body, washing away Marrakesh, but her shoulders are shaking.
I open the shower door and step inside. She turns, surprised, and tears mix with the water on her face. She doesn't try to hide them.
"Hey," I say softly, pulling her against my chest. "I've got you."
Her arms come around me, holding tight, and she lets herself break. Just for a moment. Just here, where no one else can witness it. I hold her under the spray, one hand stroking her hair, the other pressed against her spine, grounding her through the crash.
When the tears slow, I reach for the soap. "Let me."
She nods, turning so her back is to me. I work the soap into a lather and start at her shoulders, washing away the gunpowder and blood and fear. Taking my time. Making sure every inch of her is clean, is cared for, is safe.
My hands map her body with purpose—shoulders, back, the curve of her waist, her hips. Not to arouse, though I feel her relax into my touch. To prove she's here. To wash away everything we left behind in Morocco.
She leans back against me, trusting me to hold her up. "Your turn," she murmurs.
We switch positions. Her hands are gentle as she washes me, taking the same care I gave her. Intimacy of it—this quiet careafter violence—feels more profound than anything that came before.
When we're both clean, I turn off the water and wrap her in a towel. Her eyes are clearer now. Less haunted. She touches my face, and I lean into her palm.
I dry her off slowly, carefully, then myself. When we emerge from the bathroom, the bedroom feels like a sanctuary. Soft light. Clean sheets. Safety, at least for now.
She stands by the bed, towel still wrapped around her, and I cross to her. Before I can reach for the towel, she catches my hand.
"We should talk first," she says, voice quiet but steady. "About practicalities."
I understand immediately. Operatives learn to have these conversations—clean, direct, no room for assumptions. "I'm tested regularly. Clean. Last results were two weeks ago."
"Same. I haven't been with anyone since my last screening." Her gaze holds mine. "And I'm on long-term birth control. No chance of pregnancy."
The relief that floods through me isn't just about the practicalities. It's about trust. About her choosing this, choosing me, without barriers between us.
"No condoms then," I say, and it's not a question.
"No condoms." She steps closer, eliminating the space between us. "Just us."
My fingers find the edge of the towel, and she lets it fall. I drink in every inch of exposed skin. She's beautiful in the lamplight, all curves and shadows and the faint bruises from Marrakesh that make my chest tighten with protective fury.
I let my own towel drop. Her gaze travels over me, and I recognize the same need in her eyes—not just desire, but the need to reconnect, to prove we're both here, both alive.
I guide her to the bed, following her down onto sheets that smell like lavender and sunshine. Softness beneath us is such a stark contrast to the violence we escaped that it feels almost surreal.
This feels different. Slower. More real than anything that came before.
I start at her collarbone, kissing the hollow of her throat where her pulse flutters wild and fast. The taste of her skin is intoxicating—clean from the shower but underneath, purely Marissa. "You're here," I murmur against her neck, teeth grazing lightly. "You're safe."
Her hands slide into my hair, fingers tightening, holding me to her. "So are you."
I work my way down her body, mapping every inch with lips and tongue and hands. The swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip. Not just to arouse, though her breathing changes, her back arching into my touch. To ground us both. To remind myself that she's here, that we have this moment even if tomorrow brings more danger.
My mouth closes over her nipple, and she gasps, back bowing off the bed. I take my time there, alternating between gentle and demanding, learning what makes her moan, what makes her fingers dig into my scalp. Her other breast receives the same attention while my hand slides down her stomach, feeling the muscles quiver beneath my palm.
