Then I took it.
The water was warm when it hit us. It soaked through denim and leather and cotton and washed over dried blood and sweat and the invisible film ofthe night. My hair clung to my face in wet ropes. His shirt went dark and heavy against his skin.
I sank down first, dragging him with me, until we were both sitting on the floor of the shower, his back against the tile, mine against him, water pouring over us in a steady sheet. His arms wrapped around me again, firmer this time, like he was bracing us both against something only he could see.
I shifted, half-turned, and let my head drop forward until my forehead rested against his collarbone.
The first sob ripped out before I could swallow it.
I hated crying. It felt like failure. Like letting someone see the wires under the armor. But there, with water drowning the sound out and his chest under my cheek, it came anyway. Ugly. Harsh. Years of held-tight grief and fear and anger hitching loose.
He didn’t say anything stupid like it’s okay. It wasn’t. He didn’t tell me to stop. He just held me. One big hand moved slowly up and down my spine, not in a soothing pattern, just something repetitive enough to remind me he was real. He was there. With me.
When the worst of it burned out, I was left hollowed. Tired down to the bone. My fingers had fisted in his shirt without me noticing, knuckles white.
He tilted his head, pressed his mouth lightly against my wet hair.
“We’re still here,” he murmured. “That’s all we can give them. That the ones who keep dying didn’t drag us down with them.”
I huffed a broken laugh.
“Dark pep talk,” I rasped.
“The only kind I know,” he said.
At some point, the water went from washing blood away to just soaking us for no reason. I pulled back finally, wiped at my face, and blinked water out of my eyes to look at him.
His hair was plastered to his skull. Drops ran down his jaw, caught in the curve of his throat. His eyes were softer than I’d ever seen them and more tired than I wanted to admit I recognized.
“Take this off,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “You giving orders again?”
“Your shirt,” I clarified, voice hoarse but steadier. “Can’t sleep in a soaked rag. You’ll catch some old wives’ tale sickness and I’ll have to tell Blackjack his Enforcer died of being an idiot.”
He snorted.
We stripped in the steam, movements slower now, more deliberate. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just two people peeling off layers that had gotten too heavy. I didn’t bother with modesty. There didn’t feel like much point after the way my heart had just tried to climb out of my chest in front of him.
We toweled off enough not to drown his sheets, then stumbled out to the bed.
He hesitated at the edge of the mattress, like he didn’t want to assume anything.
I answered for him.
I climbed onto the bed, laid down, and reached a handback.
“Come here, Evan,” I said.
His eyes flicked to mine when I used his real name. Then he climbed in beside me.
We lay facing each other, inches apart. No armor. No clothes. Just bruises and scars and heat.
His hand found my waist. Mine found his chest, fingers resting over the steady thud of his heart. It grounded me more than any pep talk ever could have.
He leaned in first this time.
The kiss was different than the one in the doorway. More ache. Slow. Careful, like he was afraid I might shatter if he pressed too hard.
