She didn’t ask for words.
Her breathing evens out as the heat does its work. Muscles loosening. Jaw unclenching by degrees.
After a while, she exhales and says, quiet and flat, “I hate that he knew.”
I keep washing.
“I hate that he waited. That he stood there and watched.” A pause. “I hate that part of me understands why.”
That one lands heavier.
I rinse the sponge and move to her shoulders. Down her back. Careful around the base of her neck.
“You’d have told me,” she says.
Not a question.
I nod.One silent word. Big enough.
She nods, closes her eyes again, like she needed to see it to believe it.
The room is too small for distance now. Steam fogs the mirror until the edges disappear.
I strip my boots off. Then my shirt and the rest of my clothes. I step into the tub behind her.
The water sloshes.
She stiffens for half a second – then leans back into my chest with a tired sound that hits harder than anything she’s said.
I wrap my arms around her. Not tight. Just enough to give her something solid to push against.
Her hands come up automatically, fingers gripping my forearms like she’s checking they’re real.
We sit like that.
Heat. Breath. Weight.
No explanations.
No plans.
Just staying.
Then she tilts her head back and kisses me.
It’s not soft.
It’s sharp. Urgent. Teeth and frustration and need all tangled together. Like she’s trying to burn something out of herself.
I let it last two seconds.
Then I pull back.
She makes a low, angry sound and twists to face me. Water sloshes over the rim of the tub.
“What?” she snaps.
I meet her eyes and shake my head.
