“How can you lie right to my face like that?”
“Joke’s on you, I don’t know where your face is.”
I hear him lunge and dodge poorly, and he catches me around the waist again, pulling me against him as we both slide through a patch of wet grass. My hands find his shoulders. His breath huffs against my cheek, warm in contrast to the cold rain pelting us.
We’re both dripping, soaked to the bone, laughing like idiots in a downpour that should’ve ended the night but somehow made it better.
For a heartbeat, we just stand there, our chests pressed together, breaths mingling in the rain. The world feels electrified around us, storming, roaring, drenched, and inside it all, I feel… light and alive and free.
“Jason…” I whisper, breath hitching.
“Violet…”
I find his mouth by instinct alone, his warm lips rain-slick, hungry, and laughing into mine. His hands tighten on my back, pulling me closer until every part of us is touching, soaked clothes be damned.
We stumble the whole way to my porch, slipping, gasping, kissing between breaths. He fumbles with the key, gets the door open, and we tumble inside, dripping all over the entryway floor.
The moment the door clicks shut, he pulls in a breath.
“Violet,” he says softly, “you smell like rain and mud and…”
“And you smell like wet dog.”
He laughs loudly, and the sound is impossibly perfect. “Shower. Now. Before you freeze.”
I hear his shirt peel off, wet fabric slapping lightly as it hits the floor. He steps closer, his fingers brushing my hip.
“Come with me,” I whisper.
He goes still. Then…
“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Okay.”
We peel off soaked clothing, sticky fabric sliding down skin, droplets hitting the tile, our laughter echoing as we bump into each other in the dim hallway. He takes my hand, guiding me into the bathroom.
The moment the warm water hits us, steam blooms everywhere, thick and soft. Jason pulls me under the spray, his hands finding my waist, then sliding up my sides in slow, gentle paths.
“You feel incredible,” he murmurs into my neck as he reaches behind me. The floral scent of my shampoo unfurls into the steam.
“May I?” he asks quietly.
I nod.
His fingers glide into my hair, massaging shampoo into my scalp with a tenderness that destroys me. Slow circles. Careful pressure. His thumbs working along the base of my skull, down to the nape of my neck, until my knees nearly give out. He steadies me, chuckling softly against my cheek.
He rinses my hair under the stream, his hands guiding me back, then forward, fingertips tracing my jaw, brushing over my scars with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
“Turn around,” he murmurs.
I do.
Body wash squelches, then his hands return, smoothing the soap over my shoulders, down my arms, turning them gently to run along the inside of my wrists.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says.
I gasp. “Don’t stop.”
His hands trail down my sides, shaping me with slow, sure strokes, like he’s learning me through touch the way I’ve had to learn everything since the accident.
