Her hands trace up my arms, down my back, and I feel the way her fingers linger, teasing, exploring, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Every gasp she lets out makes my chest tighten, and I’m dizzy with how much I want her.
“Cap, I want you,” she breathes. “I’ve been ready for this for months.”
“I’m yours, Sunshine. I am yours. Forever.” I go back to worshipping her.
The room feels different now—softer somehow, like the air itself has settled. The lamp casts a low, golden glow across the walls, and everything looks touched by it, like we’re inside a moment that doesn’t want to be rushed or explained.
Kenna sits beside me on the bed, knees pulled up, wrapped in the sheet. Her hair is still tangled from earlier, and there’s a faint crease between her brows like she’s still catching her breath—not from panic, not from regret, just from the intensity of feeling something real.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods, then smiles at me, small and sincere. “Yeah. I just feel…sticky,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
I huff a soft laugh, relieved by the normalcy of it. “You can use my shower,” I say. “If you want. I’ve got hot water. And clean towels. Promise.”
She studies my face for a second, like she’s making sure I mean it the way I say it. Then she nods. “I’d like that.”
I grab a towel from the hall closet and hand it to her, my fingers brushing hers. The contact still sends a quiet spark through me, but it’s different now—steadier. Less about want, more about closeness.
“Take your time,” I tell her. “I’ll be right here.”
When the bathroom door closes, I sit back on the bed and exhale. The sound of the shower starting fills the space, steady andgrounding. I stare at my hands for a moment, then at the ceiling, replaying everything in fragments—her voice, the way she looked at me, the trust in her eyes. There’s a nervous flutter in my chest, but underneath it is something solid.
Something good.
When the water shuts off, I stand before I even realize I’m moving. The door opens a minute later, steam spilling into the hallway. She steps out wrapped in the towel, hair damp and clinging to her shoulders, cheeks flushed from the heat.
She looks at me like she’s not sure what comes next.
“Hey,” I say gently.
“Hey,” she answers.
I reach for the brush on my dresser, hesitating just long enough to give her time to say no. “Do you want me to help with your hair?”
Her shoulders relax. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
She sits on the edge of the bed, turning so her back is to me. I sit behind her, careful to keep space until I know she’s comfortable. When I start brushing, I go slow—slower than necessary—untangling each section with more care than I’ve ever put into anything.
Her hair slides through my fingers, still warm, still faintly scented with my soap. She lets out a small sigh, and it feels like permission.
“You’re being really gentle,” she says.
“I know,” I reply. “I want to be.”
The words hang between us, heavier than they sound. I don’t rush to explain them. I don’t need to.
When I finish, I rest my hand briefly on her shoulder, grounding myself in the moment. She turns to look at me, eyes soft, something unreadable but good shining there.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” she says. “I wasn’t exactly planning on staying.”
I open my drawer and pull out a T-shirt—the soft one, theone that’s been washed a hundred times—and a pair of sweatpants. I hand them to her without thinking twice.
“Here,” I say. “They’re yours tonight.”
She smiles, holding them against her chest. “Thank you.”
When she comes back dressed in my clothes, they’re too big on her in that way that makes my chest ache. The sleeves swallow her hands. The waistband sits low on her hips. She looks like she belongs here in a way that scares me a little and comforts me more.
