“Turn around,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it, like he’s asking me to step into a moment he’s been holding open for me.
And I do.
24
Lucian
“Turn around,” I say, and even though the words are soft, they feel weighted in my chest. She’s already close enough that the heat of her body reaches me through the steam, and when she turns beneath the spray with that small, trusting movement, something inside me tightens with a slow, deliberate ache.
From where I’m sitting on the bench, the angle is different, almost like I am kneeling for her and worshiping her. The position is vulnerable in an intimate way. She stands above me, water sliding down her back in long, unbroken lines, and I have to take a breath before I touch her because the sight of her open and unguarded hits harder than I’m prepared for.
My hands don’t feel as steady as they should. I’ve held my own body together through worse than this, but nothing compares to the quiet gravity of her standing in front of me, trusting me with a moment I never thought I’d get back.
I start to wash her back slowly, letting the motion guide me rather than rushing the moment, and the intimacy of it settles over me like a tide I didn’t see coming. She tilts her head slightly, offering me more of herself, and the gesture is so small, so instinctive, that it nearly unravels me. I don’t think she realizes how much it means, or maybe she does, and that’s what makes my chest feel too tight.
She’s more beautiful than I remembered, not because she’s changed but because I’m seeing her without the haze of anger or regret or the sharp edge of the ending we never should have had. There’s something softer in her now, or maybe it’s in me, a kind of quiet gratitude that she’s letting me be close again, letting me relearn the shape of her with my hands instead of memory.
All that exists right now is the warmth of her skin beneath my palms and the steady rhythm of her breathing. I try to be respectful, to keep my touch measured, and to remind myself that this moment is a gift I don’t deserve to take advantage of. But the truth is I’m starving for her in a way that’s been building in me since the day I walked away.
The truth settles heavier with every pass of my hands over her skin.
I’m starving.
In the slow way, of a hollow ache of a man who’s been denying himself something essential for too long. I let my thumbs trace the line of her spine, feeling the way she breathes a little deeper when I linger, and the way her shoulders soften as she gives herself over to the simple act of being touched.
I don’t rush. I can’t, I know if I do, I’ll lose the thread of control I’m barely holding onto.
Water streams down her, over my hands, carrying soap and heat and the scent of her into my lungs. I inhale, thinking it might steady me, but it doesn’t. It just reminds me of everythingI walked away from, and everything she’s somehow letting me have back.
My hands slide lower, reverent, mapping familiar terrain like I’m afraid it might disappear if I don’t commit it to memory again. I press my palms more firmly into her, grounding myself in the reality of her standing here, trusting me with her back turned, her body relaxed and open in a way that makes something in my chest pull tight.
She shifts slightly, not away from me, but toward me like an invitation.
The movement is small, but it nearly breaks me.
I rest my forehead briefly against her back, my eyes closing as the water beats down around us. I shouldn’t want this the way I do. Shouldn’tneedit, but need isn’t something I’ve ever been good at denying, not when it’s this close, this real.
My hands tighten enough to betray me, before I force them to ease again.
“Celeste,” I murmur, her name leaving me like a confession.
She hums softly, acknowledging me without turning around, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me and trusts me not to cross a line she hasn’t invited me over.
That trust is everything.
I trail my hands back up her sides, slower now, deliberate, letting the pads of my fingers drag just enough to make my intent known. I want her to feel how badly I’m holding myself in check. I want her to understand that every careful touch is a choice.
Because if I stop choosing, I won’t stop at all.
“I missed this,” I admit quietly, my voice rough.
The words don’t feel big enough for the emotions pressing against my ribs. What I feel is closer to a slow and constant hunger, like something essential I’ve been denying myself because I didn’t deserve it.
I swallow, steady myself. If I let myself want her the way my body does, I’ll forget how to be careful.
“Sit,” I say gently. “Let me wash your hair.”
I meant for her to sit beside me so I could have a better angle, and I could continue to give to her without asking for anything back. I need to prove to her, and to myself, that I can still be trusted with softness.
