Only then do I move.
My hands come to her arms first—light, grounding. I rinse the shampoo from her hair, fingers careful as they work through the strands. I don’t pull. I don’t rush. The intimacy of it hits me harder than anything else. This—taking care of her like this, without expectation—feels more exposed than any touch meant to take.
Her eyes close.
The water runs down her spine. My palms follow, mapping her slowly, deliberately. When my hands pass over the scar on her leg, I feel her body tense beneath my touch.
I don’t stop.
I don’t change the way I touch her.
I treat it like any other part of her—because it is.
Her throat works. I feel the emotion before she says anything, feel it in the way her breath shifts, in the way her shoulders soften just a fraction.
I turn her gently then, one hand lifting her chin until she’slooking at me through the steam. Her eyes are bright, vulnerable, searching. I keep my gaze steady—intent, but soft. Not hungry. Not demanding.
Present.
I rest my forehead against hers, water cascading over both of us, and for a moment we just stand there, breathing each other in.
“You don’t have to disappear in here,” I tell her quietly. “You’re safe.”
She nods again. Words still won’t come for her. That’s okay.
I kiss her.
Slow. Deliberate. Not taking—checking in. A careful press of my mouth to hers that asks rather than claims. She melts into it without thinking, her hands sliding up my arms, fingers curling into my shoulders.
The kiss deepens—not urgent, not consuming. Certain.
The world outside the shower fades. No church. No threats. No past reaching for her. Just heat, water, and the way she fits against me like this is exactly where she’s meant to be.
When we finally pull apart, my hands settle on her hips, thumbs brushing slow, grounding circles into her skin.
“We can stay here as long as you want,” I tell her.
She leans into me, her forehead resting against my chest. I feel her listening to my heartbeat beneath the rush of water.
For the first time since I brought her here, I feel her body loosen.
And I hold her there, letting her stay.
38
ROWAN
Ikeep waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For something to snap me awake and remind me that this—all of this—isn’t real. That I don’t belong here. That safety is borrowed and temporary and always comes with a cost.
But morning comes gently instead. Light slips through floor-to-ceiling windows, pale and unhurried. The city is already awake somewhere far below us, but up here it feels muted, distant. I wake tangled in Justin’s sheets, in Justin’s arms, pressed so close to him I don’t know where I end and he begins.
I don’t pull away. Because there’s no need to. Here in his arms is my happy, safe place.
That’s when I realize it’s been days—actual days—since I’ve thought about the past with any urgency. The images haven’t clawed at me. The anger hasn’t demanded my attention. The sharp, relentless need for retribution has dulled, not vanished, but softened around the edges.
For the first time in a long while, my pain isn’t driving the car.
