Finally, he straightens, cups my face in both hands, and kisses me—slow, lingering, tasting like salt and affection.
“Come here,” he says quietly.
He slides an arm under my knees, another around my back, and lifts me as though I weigh nothing. I wrap my arms around his neck on instinct, laughing breathlessly against his shoulder.
“I can walk, you know.”
“I know,” he murmurs, carrying me toward the bathroom anyway. “But I want to take care of you.”
The bathroom is small, familiar—same chipped tile, same slightly crooked mirror. He sets me on the closed toilet lid while he turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature with the focus of someone who’s done this a thousand times in his head. When steam starts curling into the air, he tests the water with his hand, nods to himself, then turns back to me.
“Ready?”
I nod.
He helps me stand—steady hands on my hips—then guides me under the spray first. The warm water hits, and I tip my head back, letting it sluice over my face, my shoulders, washing away the last of the sweat and stickiness.
Silas steps in behind me, pulling the curtain closed. He reaches for the body wash—same brand he’s always used, cedar and something faintly spicy—and pours some into his palm. Then his hands are on me again.
He starts at my shoulders, working the soap in slow, firm circles, thumbs digging gently into the knots there until I groan and melt against him. He moves down my arms, my back, my sides—every touch careful, attentive. When he reaches my chest, he lingers, soaping over my pecs, my nipples, then lower, washing my stomach, my hips.
“Turn,” he murmurs.
I do.
He washes my back again—slow drags of his palms from shoulders to tailbone—then drops to one knee so he can reach lower. His hands glide over my ass, between my thighs, gentle where I’m still sensitive. He doesn’t linger sexually; this is pure care. Cleansing. Reverent.
“Lift your arms,” he says softly.
I do. He washes under them, along my ribs, then down to my legs. When he’s satisfied, he stands again, turns me so I’m facing him under the spray, and lets the water rinse everything away.
Only then does he start on himself—quick, efficient, like it’s secondary. I reach for the body wash before he can stop me.
“My turn,” I say.
He lets me. I soap his chest, his shoulders, the strong line of his back. I take my time the way he did—tracing scars, pressing kisses to wet skin. When I’m done, he pulls me against him, chest to chest, and we just stand there under the water for a long minute, holding each other while the steam wraps around us.
Eventually, he reaches over and shuts off the tap.
He grabs a towel—thick, soft, one I remember from before—and dries me first. Slow pats over my shoulders, my arms, my chest, down my legs. He kneels again to dry my feet, then stands and wraps the towel around my waist, tucking it secure. Only then does he dry himself—quick, careless—before pulling on a pair of clean boxers and handing me a soft, worn T-shirt of his and a pair of joggers that I get lost in.
“Yours now,” he says, kissing my forehead.
I pull it on. It smells like him. Like home.
He leads me back to the living room, fingers laced with mine. The couch is waiting, same throw blanket from before folded neatly on the arm. He sits, pulls me down beside him, then tugs me half into his lap so my head rests on his chest.
The remote is in his hand. He scrolls through the streaming menu, pauses on some black-and-white documentary about some war I’ve never heard of.
I groan dramatically.
He chuckles, low and warm, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine.
“Now,” he says, pressing play anyway, “will you watch that boring documentary with me?”
I tilt my head back to look up at him, grinning despite myself.
“Only if you keep holding me like this the whole time.”
