“Still,” I whisper. “I hate it.”
He turns me slightly so I’m facing him, our bodies pressed close under the water. “Ollie. Look at me.” His tone is serious now.
I do.
“I chose you,” he says, voice firm. “I keep choosing you. Don’t you dare apologize for loving me.”
My breath catches, and I nod. “Okay,” I whisper.
He smiles then, softer, warmth returning. “Good.” He reaches for the shampoo, pours it into his hands, and lathers it. He starts washing my hair like it’s the most normal thing in the world. It’s such a simple act that it nearly breaks me.
His fingers massage my scalp gently, careful of pulling. Water runs down my face. I close my eyes, letting myself be cared for.
I’m always the one who pushes through. Always the one who performs, trains, survives. It feels foreign to let someone do this.
It feels like love.
When he rinses my hair and smooths conditioner through it, I let my forehead fall against his shoulder. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“For what?”
“For being here.”
He kisses my temple. “Where else would I be?”
We trade places and I wash him, too, hands sliding over his shoulders, following his ink to his chest. He leans into the touch with quiet relief, eyes closing for a moment like he’s letting the day go. I rinse the soap off him carefully, tracing my hands down his arms as if I’m reassuring myself he’s still here. That he’s real.
When we finally turn the water off, the bathroom feels too cold. We dry off in silence, towels rough against skin. Rafe takes my damp towel off me. I catch his fingers for a second longer than necessary.
We pad into the bedroom together.
The curtains are half drawn, sunlight muted. The bed is made—because I always make it without thinking—but he pulls the comforter back like it’s an invitation.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
I do.
We crawl under the covers still warm from the day, bodies clean, hair damp. Rafe pulls me against him instantly, arm heavy around my shoulders, my head tucked into his chest.
It’s midafternoon. The city is wide awake outside. Inside, everything slows.
My thoughts drift back again—my mother’s voice, my father’s ultimatum, the feeling of being watched like an object rather than loved like a son.
The humiliation burns. The grief is quieter, but deeper.
I whisper into the space between us, “What if I’m not worth this?”
Rafe goes still for half a beat. Then he firmly slides his hand up my back. “Ollie,” he says, voice low and intense, “don’t ever say that.”
“I just—” I swallow. “You could have an easier life.”
“Maybe,” he admits. “But it wouldn’t be mine.”
My chest tightens again.
He tilts my chin up so I’m forced to look at him. His eyes are fierce. “Youare my husband.”
The word steadies me.
