The bedroom is all white, shadow, and promise: a king bed dressed in linen that whispers beneath your hand, pillows stacked like clouds. On the nightstand, a carafe of water and two glasses flank a small ceramic dish—exactly the right place to set rings when we’re ready.Even from here, the bands glint on our hands, tiny sparks punctuating every gesture.
The bathroom feels like its own world—black-and-white tile, a clawfoot tub beneath a frosted window, a walk-in shower big enough to be a dare. Little glass bottles with gold caps line the counter. I lift one, and lavender blooms into the air, chased by something green and clean. Towels are stacked in an artful tower, soft as folded animals.
Celeste booked the suite for us tonight, and honestly—I could stay here forever.
A wave hits me so hard I have to brace a palm on the wall.
Olive said yes. She’s here. She’s mine to care for.
“Hey,” Olive says, voice quiet and bright at once, like a lamp turned low. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I look at her and everything inside me loosens. “Overwhelmed. In the good way.”
She toes off her flats, wiggles her toes, and I swear I’ll write a song about that tiny, ridiculous joy. I kick my shoes in the general direction of the closet. They bounce off the doorframe and land with a thud that would embarrass a more elegant man.
We both laugh.
“You,” she says, pointing at the shoes, “are a menace.”
“Harsh but fair.”
She moves to the window and parts the curtain just enough for the city’s pulse to slip in—distant horns, the hush of tires, that deep, late-night breath.
“Bath?” I ask.
Her eyes soften. “Yes.”
I turn the taps on the clawfoot tub. The water answers with a low, steady rush, steam blooming up in milky whorls almost immediately. I shake a little lavender bath salt into my palm and let it fall into theswirl; the scent blooms all at once—lavender with something warm beneath it.
“Come here,” I say.
She steps close and turns without asking, trusting me, silk whispering as her dress shifts. I start on her hairpins—one, then another—each silver comma placed on the counter like treasure. With every pin I free, she exhales, like I’ve unhooked a thought she didn’t realize she was holding. When the last comes loose, her hair spills warm into my hands. I comb through it slowly, crown to ends, easing out the tangles the day left behind.
Steam curls around us, softening the edges, turning the vanity light to molten gold. Our rings catch it—two quick sparks when my hand brushes hers.
I step close and set my hands at her waist first, where the silk is warm from her, where I can feel the shape of her under the boning. There’s a tiny hook above the zipper; my thumb finds it, my forefinger slips the loop free. The sound that follows is ordinary and devastating—the soft sigh of a zipper giving way—and it feels like the whole suite exhales with us. I work it down inch by inch, knuckles grazing satin, then the hotter smoothness of her skin where the fabric parts. Goosebumps rise in my wake.
“Turn?” I murmur.
She does, just enough for me to slide the straps off her shoulders. They fall, and I ease the bodice away with both hands, patient, reverent. The skirt pools at her ankles like cream, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
I look up because she’s looking at me.
“You’re staring,” she says, one corner of her mouth tugging up.
“I’m memorizing,” I rasp.
She stands by the tub—naked, hair loose, every line of her bare and unguarded—and my heart does a clumsy, grateful thing in my chest.
“Come here,” I say, and she does, straight into me.
I just hold her first, needing the weight of her against me. Then I lean back, trace my knuckles from her temple down the line of her jaw to the hollow of her throat. I kiss there, where her pulse jumps quick against my mouth. Her hands find my shirt buttons, slow, deliberate, undoing them one by one.
I test the water with my wrist, nudge the tap a little warmer. “Okay?”
She dips her fingers to the surface, then nods. We step in together, and the water closes around us, rich and decadent.
“Lean forward?” I ask.
