He’ll leave now.
He got what he wanted.
You were a fool to think this meant more.
I brace for it.
For the cold shift.
The regret.
The distance.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead—he turns around.
Doesn’t walk away.
Doesn’t throw on his clothes or make some offhand comment.
No, he reaches beside the bed—his expression unreadable, focused—and he grabs the soft cotton undershirt that had ended up on the floor earlier.
And then?
Hecleansme.
Gently. Tenderly.
Carefully patting the fabric between my thighs, murmuring something too low to catch as he does it.
He’s not rough.
Not rushed.
Not the least bit ashamed.
It undoes me.
That simple act.
That unexpected softness from a man who’s all sharp edges and muscle and scowl.
I blink up at the ceiling, throat tight, vision blurry.
No one’s ever done that for me.
No one’s ever cared enough to.
And this? This feels dangerously close to caring.
CHAPTER 27
THATCHER
I’m still trying to catch up with what just happened.
Feels like the whole damn world spun off its axis, flipped upside down, then slammed back into place.
