"I'm not used to compliments," I admit against his chest, water streaming over both of us. "Not real ones, anyway. Men say shit to get in your pants, but once they have what they want..."
"They show you who they really are," Mason finishes quietly. His arms tighten around me. "I know that pattern. Seen it happen to enough people. Hell, watched my father do it to my mother for years. Charm her in public, tear her down in private."
"I'm sorry." I pull back slightly to look at him. "That you had to see that. That you lived through it."
"I survived it." His hand comes up to cup my cheek. "And so did you. Whatever shit you've been through, whatever assholes made you think you're not enough, you survived that too. You're here. You're fighting. You're protecting your daughter. That's not weakness, Lily. That's fucking strength."
My throat tightens with emotion. I'm not used to this. Not used to someone seeing the hard parts of my life and calling it strength instead of failure.
"I'll make sure you get used to compliments," he continues, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. "Because you deserve them. And I'm not going to stop giving them to you just because you're not used to hearing them."
He leans down and kisses me then. Softer this time, gentle, his lips moving against mine with a tenderness that makes me happier than ever before. When he pulls back, his eyes are warm.
"Now let's actually shower," he murmurs. "Before we run out of hot water."
He reaches for the soap and starts washing me. His hands move over my body, touching every inch of skin like he's memorizing me. He soaps up my shoulders, my arms, the curve of my waist. His fingers trail over my stomach, and I tense instinctively. Old habit, old shame about the softness there, the stretch marks from pregnancy.
But Mason doesn't rush past it. Doesn't avoid it or treat it like something to hide. He takes his time, his palms flat against my belly, feeling the shape of me.
"This is where you carried Rosie," he says quietly. "Where you grew a whole person. That's fucking incredible, Lily. Your bodydid that. Created life. Sustained it. That's not something to be ashamed of."
I feel tears prick my eyes. Nobody's ever talked about my post-pregnancy body like that. Like it's something powerful instead of damaged. Like the changes are evidence of strength rather than failure to bounce back.
"Thank you," I whisper, because I don't know what else to say.
He just smiles and keeps washing me. His hands move up to my breasts, soaping them gently, his thumbs brushing over my nipples. Not sexual this time, though I feel my body respond anyway, just thorough. Caring.
He turns me around and washes my back, working the soap into my shoulders where I carry all my tension. His fingers find knots I didn't even know I had, working them loose with the right amount of pressure.
"Fuck, that feels good," I moan, my head dropping forward.
"You're tight everywhere," he observes, his hands moving down my spine. "When's the last time you relaxed? Actually relaxed?"
I try to think. Can't remember. "Probably before Rosie was born. Maybe even before that."
"That's what I thought." His hands reach my ass, and this time there's definitely something sexual in the touch. He squeezes, kneads, and I feel his cock stirring against my back. "We're going to fix that. Get you to relax. Let someone else carry the weight for once."
"I don't know how to do that," I admit.
"You'll learn." He turns me back around, tilting my face up to meet his eyes. "I'll teach you. Starting now."
He washes my hair then, his fingers massaging my scalp in slow circles. It's the most intimate thing anyone's ever done for me. More intimate than sex somehow, this act of pure care with no expectation of anything in return.
I close my eyes and let him work, let myself feel good without guilt, let someone take care of me for the first time in longer than I can remember.
When he's done rinsing my hair, I take the soap from him. "My turn."
I wash him the same way he washed me—thoroughly, learning the landscape of his body. The scars on his shoulder from the horse accident. Smaller scars scattered across his back and chest that are probably from his military service, though I don't ask. The thick muscles of his arms and chest from years of ranch work.
He's beautiful in that rugged, lived-in way. Not pretty or polished, but real. Strong. His body tells the story of his life. Every scar, every callus, every muscle earned through survival and hard work.
When I reach his cock, it's already half-hard again. I soap it up, stroking slowly, feeling it thicken in my hands.
"Careful," he warns, his voice rough. "Or we're never making it to Sarah's."
"Would that be so bad?" I look up at him through my lashes, squeezing gently.
"Yes, because you need that job." But he groans when I stroke him again. "And because Tucker's watching Rosie, and we can't take advantage of his generosity by fucking in the shower for the next three hours."
