I hesitate. Something about the way he’s looking at me—focused, tender, stripped of all the arrogance—makes my chest tighten.
When I finally step under the spray, the water cascades over both of us. He says nothing. He reaches for the soap, working up a light lather, and his fingers move over me in small, deliberate motions. Every movement is slow, reverent—like he didn't memorize every inch of me while we were in bed.
“Step forward.”
I follow his direction, closing my eyes as his fingers thread through my hair. He works in gentle circles, massaging my scalp, his thumbs tracing slow, soothing patterns at the base of my neck. The world narrows to the rhythm of his hands and the soft drag of his voice when he murmurs, “Lean back a little. That’s it.” His voice is soft and sure.
I close my eyes, letting the water rinse through. He keeps going, combing through the tangles, being careful not to pull.
No one’s ever touched me like this. Like I’m fragile. Like I’m something worth protecting.
When he’s done, he turns off the water, steps out, and grabs a thick towel from the warmer. The air rushes around us, cool against my skin, and before I can shiver, he’s wrapping me up in it, tucking the edges close.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You did good, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “Better than good.”
Something about his praise and the tender way he is caring for me sparks something deep inside. No one has ever cared for me like this. It’s just a shower but my heart feels like it is the beginning of something bigger.
He leaves for a moment and comes back with one of his shirts—soft, black, smelling faintly of cedar and him. He holds it out like it’s something delicate.
“Here,” he says. “Wear this.”
I slip it over my head, and the fabric falls almost to my knees. The warmth of it—and him—wraps around me, and something inside me stirs that I don’t know how to name.
When I glance up, he’s watching me. Not with hunger. Not with pride. Something gentler.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask, trying for lightness.
“Because I can,” he answers simply.
The honesty in his tone catches me off guard. I cross my arms, pretending to study the bathroom tile. “Is this…normal?”
He tilts his head. “What is?”
“This.” I wave a hand vaguely between us. “The whole showering and caring for me thing. I was expecting us to just go to sleep.” I look down again. Feeling silly I even questioned it. But, my brain needs to know if he takes cares of every woman in his bed like he just did me.
Langston steps closer until I can feel the heat of him even through the shirt. He tips my chin up with a finger and presses a kiss to my forehead.
“No, never,” he says quietly. Like he knew what was in my head. “But it’s going to be our normal.”
His eyes hold mine for a long moment before he adds, softer still, “Because when we make love, I’m not just touching you, sweetheart. I’m taking care of you.”
And just like that, the wall I’ve been holding up around my heart starts to crack.
“Finish getting ready for bed. There is a brand new toothbrush in the drawer and a comb for your hair. We will get the rest of your things tomorrow.” He leaves without allowing me to have the chance to argue with him about me going back to my apartment tomorrow. I can’t stay here with him. He is already making me feel things and that is a dangerous game when this has an expiration date.
He strips the bed, replaces the linen with clean ones. I don’t know how to feel about that. I feel embarrassed that he had to do it at all. I look up at him when he comes back into the room with our cell phones.
I fidget with the hem. “Can you show me which room I’ll be staying in?”
For a second, he doesn’t move. Then his jaw flexes. “Excuse me?”
I blink. “You know, the guest roomor—”
He takes two steps forward, the air shifting instantly. “You think you’re sleeping anywhere but here?”
My pulse jumps. “Langston, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong.” His tone is calm, but there’s a growl beneath it, low and possessive. “You’re my wife, Sabrina. The only place you’ll be sleeping is with me.”
