‘Neck.’
Another convulsion racks me. Jesus. I grip the porcelain, burning up from the inside out, but Brodie simply adjusts his hold. Unshakable.
‘Why…are you…’
The next heave brings up nothing but bitterness. I sag against the cistern, temples throbbing.
‘Because you’d do the same for me,’ he answers my half-asked question. ‘Because you’re not the only one who needed to cut loose. And because someone should remind you it’s allowed.’
Silence stretches, broken only by the drip of the shower head. He cradles my skull – one broad palm cupping my crown, the other pressing the cool cloth to my nape.
‘Breathe.’ He kneads gentle pressure into my scalp with his thumbs. ‘In through the nose. Out through the mouth.’
I want to bite him. But I’m too weak. So, I obey.
His breath matches mine, steady as a metronome. The rhythm unravels the knots between my shoulders. My eyelids droop.
‘Aye, that’s it.’ His lips almost brush my ear, sending a traitorous shiver through me.
Slowly, gradually, I give in. My body eases against his. The warmth of him seeps into my skin. His touch is hypnotic and grounding, undoing me in ways I don’t even have words for. I let my cheek rest against his arm. Let his hands smooth over my hair. Let him hold me.
Too easy, that letting.
He threads his fingers through the strands, stroking absently. ‘Think you’re done here, Champ?’
I’m heavy. Utterly fucked. Bone-deep tired. ‘Yeah.’
Brodie shifts and rises, joints cracking. Before I can protest, before I can even think, he scoops me up and tucks me against his chest. My muscles stiffen with instinctive resistance. I don’t get carried. I’ve been holding myself up for months, gritting my teeth through every blow, hauling my own body forward step after step.
But his arms settle around me, and my pulse trips.
It doesn’t feel like being handled. It doesn’t feel like being rescued.
It feels like being supported.
Instead of telling me to push through, he lifts the weight for a little while. The fight slips out of me, and I curl my fingers into the cotton of his T-shirt.
Then I let him carry me straight to bed.
I probably should say something. About yesterday. About what we did. WhatIdid. About how my body still remembers the feel of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble against my jaw, the weight of his hands…
But I can’t.
He tucks me in as if he’s done this a hundred times before. No hesitation as he pulls the duvet over my shoulders, pressing out the air between me and the rest of the world.
I should be resisting. Asserting control. But my muscles don’t get the memo. My body sinks, lids already shut.
So what if I let this happen? For a few hours. Until my body stops screaming at me.
Brodie doesn’t move. He sits there, arms on his thighs, watching me like I might spook if he so much as sneezes. ‘We should talk about last night.’
I meet his gaze. ‘We should.’
‘But not now. You’ve got enough to deal with as it is.’ A pause. ‘But don’t think I’ll let it slide.’
A breath leaves me, too shallow to be relief. ‘Didn’t think you would.’
‘Good. I’ll handle your schedule.’
