“For now.”
She touches my arm. “Go. Take a shower. Wash the dirt off. We’ll figure it out.”
I go into the bathroom. Close the door.
The room is thick with steam. The mirror is fogged over.
It smells like her.
I lock the door. Lean against it for a second, closing my eyes.
I strip off my clothes. The hoodie, the jeans, the tactical gear. My body is a roadmap of violence—bruises from the grappling, the raw graze on my side, the old scars.
Steam closes in around me as I step into the shower. The water is brutally hot, stinging as it pounds into the back of my neck.
My palms brace against the tile. I watch grime spiral down the drain—dirt, dried blood, sweat.
It should be enough.
It isn’t.
The tension clings. Tightens.
She’s twenty feet away. In a bed. In my bed.
The thought lands heavy in my chest. I picture her curled beneath the sheets. The way she slept in the woods, pressed against me. The way she fought me during training.
A low sound tears out of me, swallowed by the spray.
My body responds before my brain can intervene. Hard, aching, relentless.
Adrenaline. Combat stress. Forced proximity.
Biology.
My hand closes around my cock. The friction is harsh, utilitarian. I work it fast, methodical—like clearing a malfunction. Resetting a system that’s gone rogue.
Except my mind refuses to cooperate.
Eyes shut, she’s there. The woman in the minivan. Her hand over mine.I’m not Sofia.
My grip tightens. Pace quickens.
I imagine her hands. Her mouth. Sinking into that heat.
“Cassie,” I breathe.
The release hits hard—violent, full-body, leaving me shaking against the tile, breath ragged.
For a long moment, I don’t move.
The water cools. My pulse slows.
And underneath it all is nothing. I’m hollow, and the heat is unresolved.
I didn’t fix anything.
I made it worse.
