“I can’t believe I’m alive… and that you love me this much.”
“I meant every word,” he said against my hair. “I still do.”
I pulled back enough to look at him, “Then let’s start.”
“Start what?”
“Everything. All of it.” I kissed the corner of his mouth, letting my lips linger. “Starting with the bath.”
His breath caught. “Claudette?—”
“I’m recovered. The doctors cleared me.” I let my fingers trail down his chest, felt his heart hammering beneath my palm. “And I seem to recall a very specific promise about making me fall apart.”
Something shifted in his expression—the restraint he’d been clinging to melted away, and what I saw underneath made my breath catch. Hunger. Want. Need.
“You have no idea,” he said, his voice dropping low enough to make me shiver, “how long I’ve been waiting to deliver on that promise.”
“Then stop making me wait.”
He kissed me—not gentle, not careful, but hard and deep and desperate, like he’d been starving and I was the only thing that could save him. His hands cradled my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones, and I melted into him.
When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing unsteadily, his lips traced down my jaw to my ear.
“Go sit on the bed,” he murmured. “Give me ten minutes.”
“What are you?—”
“I’ve had months to plan this, Claudette.” He pulled back, and his eyes were soft with promise. “Let me.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and listened to him move through the bathroom. Running water. Soft thuds. The click of a lighter. Music started playing—something slow and lovely, all piano and longing. My pulse quickened with every passing minute.
When he finally appeared in the doorway, the bathroom behind him glowed amber and gold.
“Come here.”
I went.
The bathroom stole the breath right out of my lungs.
Candles covered every surface—dozens of them, flickering on the counter, the windowsill, clustered along the edge of the massive tub. Rose petals floated on the water, red and blush pink scattered across the surface like whispered promises. Steam curled through the air, carrying the scent of vanilla and jasmine. The music wrapped around us, intimate and slow.
“Michael,” I whispered.
“I told you.” He stepped close behind me, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “I’ve been planning.”
We undressed each other slowly, reverently—no rush, no urgency, just the quiet rediscovery of each other after months of fear and waiting. When his fingers traced the scar behind my ear, I tensed, but he just leaned in and kissed it softly.
“This means you survived,” he whispered against my skin. “It’s beautiful because you’re still here.”
He helped me into the tub, the water perfectly warm, silky against my skin. He climbed in behind me, and I leaned back against his chest with a sigh that seemed to empty out months of tension.
His arms wrapped around me, holding me close. I could feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade, steady and sure.
“I dreamed about this,” he murmured into my hair. “Every night in that hospital. This exact moment. You in my arms. Safe. Alive. Mine.”
“I’m here.” I tilted my head back to look at him. “I’m yours.”
“Yes.” He kissed my forehead, my temple, the corner of my eye. “You are.”
