She’s watching me with a soft smile, legs resting around my hips where she sits on the counter, relaxed and warm like she belongs there.
I soak the pad with solution and step closer. She tilts her face up for me without a word, offering herself to my hands as she always does.
I know the exact steps to get her ready for bed because I’ve watched her do it countless times over the years, in their various permutations—half-awake, hair still damp, murmuring reminders to herself about eye cream or swearing she’ll remember the toner tomorrow. These moments never announced themselves as important when we first lived them. Little did I know how much they would come to mean, or how something so mundane could feel like proof of a life fully shared.
I lift the cotton pad and begin, slow and careful, sweeping across her cheek. She holds still for the first few seconds… Then she leans forward mid-swipe and presses a kiss into the corner of my mouth. I pause, momentarily disarmed, and she laughs softly. Before I can recover, she does it again, lips grazing my jaw. Then my cheekbone. Each kiss lands with a small, pleased giggle that curls low in my chest.
“Be good.” I try for stern but miss by a mile. “If not, we’ll be here all night.”
She groans theatrically and steals another kiss anyway. “Why are you so handsome? It’s very distracting.”
“I’ll try to tone it down.”
“No, don’t.” She says at once. “I like it.” Her fingers trace along my collarbone through the fabric of my shirt before fisting it. “You should amp it up instead.” She tugs. “Take this off please.”
I raise a brow. “I’m trying to clean your face, baby.”
“And forcing me to sit upright when all I want to do is lie down…” She pouts playfully. “It’s an ordeal. At least give me something pretty to look at to make it easier on me.”
I shake my head, surrender already decided.
I set the cotton pad aside and unbutton my shirt, slipping it off and dropping it to the floor. When I straighten, her head tips back and she exhales, pleased.
“God.” She eyes me appreciatively. “You’re so beautiful.”
She never believes me when I say the same to her. She deflects. She smiles and changes the subject. It’s the one habit she hasn’t quite shed yet.
I prepare a fresh cotton pad and step between her knees again, gently wiping across her face. However, my Olivia is nowhere near still—her hands are roaming my chest as if she’s mapping me by touch, fingertips gliding over planes of muscle and warm skin like she’s memorizing something she already knows by heart.
She has no idea what she does to me when she’s touching me like this. Like I’m something she can’t get enough of. God, I love it. I love being wanted by her. I want to look good for her. I want her to feel proud when I’m standing beside her. And I love—more than I’ll ever admit—that she can’t keep her hands off me.
She presses a kiss to my sternum. Another to my throat when I lean too close. I laugh helplessly before I can stop myself.
I catch her chin between two fingers, lifting her face away from my chest so I can actually finish what I started. “You’re not upholding your end of the bargain.”
She blinks up at me, eyes wide with faux innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”
I cup her cheek, my thumb tracing the apple of it. “Stay still and we’ll be done soon, okay? Can you be good for me, baby?”
She melts instantly. She leans into my palm as if the request has settled something inside her. She nods once and lets her hands fall to her sides. She gives herself over so easily when I ask, so sweet in her obedience when she offers it.
With her still at last, I finally finish cleaning her face. Her hands behave, mostly, though her legs brush against my hips now and then like she can’t help herself. I pretend not to notice. I don’t succeed.
When I’m done, I lean it to press my lips against hers. The kiss is slow and drugging, far longer than necessary. I tell myself it’s a reward for her, but I know it’s every bit for me too.
“You did so well for me,” I murmur against her mouth.
She smiles into the kiss.
I slide my hands around her waist and lift her down from the counter. She loops her arms around my neck, stealing another kiss on the way, and I set her on her feet before pressing one to the crown of her head.
“Now,” I say softly, gently spinning her around to face the mirror, “let’s get you out of this dress.”
I draw the zipper down slowly, my knuckles skimming the length of her spine, making her shiver involuntarily.
The fabric loosens around her shoulders, and she holds it against her chest for a beat. The line of her posture shifts, subtle enough that anyone else would miss it—but not me. Her tipsyglow dims at the edges as insecurity begins to creep in exactly the way I feared it would.
I rest my hands lightly on her upper arms, trying to soothe her without crowding her. I remember how childbirth reshaped her the first time, and how carrying twins had altered her again. While I regarded her transformation with a sense of wonder, she struggled to see it the same way because they settled into fault lines she already knew too well, carved by a childhood spent being told her body was something that needed fixing.
