“You love it.”
“Yeah, I do.”
I grabbed some tissues from the nightstand and cleaned him up as best I could, then helped him to his feet. He was moving carefully, testing his weight on the bad leg, and I steadied him with a hand on his hip.
“Shower?” I asked.
“Please. I feel disgusting.”
“You feel perfect.” But I guided him toward the bathroom anyway, keeping my pace slow to match his limp.
Inside, I turned on the water and let it heat up while he leaned against the counter, watching me with soft eyes.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just... thank you.”
“For what?”
“For taking care of me.” He pushed off the counter and came closer. “For staying.”
I pulled him into my arms and kissed the top of his head. “Always.”
We stepped into the shower together, and I washed him carefully, mindful of his injuries, before letting him return the favor. The intimacy of it felt even more significant than the sex—this quiet care, this gentleness, this thing we were building that I didn't have a name for yet.
But whatever it was, I wanted more of it.
After the shower, I helped him towel off and watched as he pulled on clean boxer briefs and sweatpants, moving slowly but more easily than he had yesterday. The hot water had helped loosen the stiffness in his shoulder and leg, and his face had lost some of that drawn, exhausted quality.
I dressed quickly in jeans and a t-shirt, and when I turned around, he was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, and I felt that pull again. The one that said this mattered more than it should, more than was safe, more than I could protect.
His stomach growled loudly, breaking the moment.
He laughed, pressing a hand to his abdomen. “Guess my body's got opinions.”
“When's the last time you ate a real meal?”
“Define real meal.”
“Something that isn't protein bars or whatever you've been surviving on.”
He grimaced. “Then probably not since before I got here.”
“Jesus, Jace.” I shook my head and took his hand, leading him out of the bathroom. “Come on. I’m feeding you.”
We made our way to the kitchen, his limp still present but less pronounced. I steered him toward the small table by the window.
“Sit. Rest that leg.”
“Bossy,” he said, and then—of course—he didn’t sit.
“Always.” I turned to the fridge, but Jace beat me there, already rummaging through it like he hadn’t just been told to rest.
“Questionable leftovers,” he muttered. “And Owen’s terrible grocery habits.”
I came up behind him, reaching past his shoulder to grab what I needed. “There’s eggs. And bread. I can make scrambled eggs and toast.”
