He nods, recalibrating. “What do you need.”
“Five minutes,” I say. “Alone in your bathroom. Then you. Join me in the shower. Then pow chica wowow.” I wiggle my eyebrows.
That does it.
He barks out a laugh. A proper one. Deep, unguarded. The kind that lights his face up and makes the little lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle.
Oh.
That is… unfortunate.
Because he is smoking hot. I have not allowed myself to think that until this exact moment, but he is. Hot and kind and considered and suddenly very, very dangerous. A walking wet dream in a well-fitted jumper.
No time for swooning, Chloe. Pain relief.
“You are an adorable menace,” he says, still chuckling, and then he links his fingers through mine.
It is such a simple gesture and yet it detonates something inside me. Butterflies in my stomach. Hormones in my bloodstream. Nerves everywhere suddenly awake and taking notes.
He leads me upstairs and into his bedroom, then points me towards the en-suite.
“In there.”
I step inside carefully.
Dark grey tiles with a soothing pattern. Clean. Calm. A massive walk-in rainfall shower that cannot honestly be described as a shower head. It is more like a ceiling panel full of holes designed by someone who understands joy.
Oh yes.
“Towels are there,” he says, pointing to a wooden shelf where dark blue towels are rolled neatly. Of course they are. Of course he is tidy. I am not surprised. I am faintly annoyed that there is another perfect thing about him.
He turns on the water. “It takes a while for the warm water to come through.”
He shrugs, then leans in and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. Not rushed. Not charged. Just gentle.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” he murmurs, and then he’s gone, closing the door behind him.
I drop my backpack on the floor.
Right.
Let’s do this.
I unzip the backpack and move on autopilot, the way you do when you don’t want to think too hard about what you’re doing or why.
I kick my shoes off, peel down my yoga pants and knickers, and sit on the toilet. Sanitary towel first. Folded, rolled, dealt with. I step out of the clothes pooled at my feet, then reach for the toothbrush, minty and deliberate, because kissing is clearly on the agenda and I am not an animal.
The bathroom is already thick with steam by the time I peel off my top, the fabric clinging to my damp skin before I toss it onto the hook on the back of the door. The air is warm, heavy with the kind of humidity that makes my curls frizz at the edges, but I don’t care. My bra is next togo—unhooked with a sharp flick of my wrists, the straps slipping down my arms before it joins the pile.
I make a half-hearted attempt to fold my trousers and top, then shove my knickers into my backpack without a second thought. Romance is a fucking myth, and right now, practicality is the only thing keeping me upright. The water patters rhythmic against the tiles, dependable as rain with a plan. I test the temperature with my fingers—hot, but not scalding. Perfect.
Stepping under the stream is like sinking into a cosy waterfall. The heat hits my shoulders first, then slithers down my back, unknotting muscles I didn’t even realize I’d been clenching all day. My breath escapes in a slow, shuddering sigh as I tilt my head back, letting the water soak into my hair, my scalp, the tight coil of tension that’s been living between my shoulder blades since this morning.
I reach for Tom's shower gel—it smells like bergamot and cedar and the kind of man who knows how to use his hands. The scent clings to my skin as I work it into a lather, methodical, efficient. This isn’t about seduction. This is about washing off the day: the pain, the stress, the crumbs of biscuits.
My fingers slide between my thighs, not to tease, but to clean. The water runs pink for a second—just a hint, just enough to remind me that my body is still doing what it does, regardless of whether I’m in the mood to acknowledge it. I rinse thoroughly, no shame, no hesitation. If Tom walks in now, he’ll see exactly what he’s getting: a woman who doesn’t flinch from the messier parts of herself.
I press my forehead against the cool tile, letting the contrast of temperatures ground me. The ache in my belly—dull, persistent—eases just enough to feel manageable.The space helps. The warmth helps. The fact that I’m not crammed into a shower stall the size of a telephone booth, with lukewarm water and a drain that gargles like it’s judging me, helps enormously.
