"That's not—" She shook her head. "That's not how tired works."
"It's how my tired works."
She was reaching for the door when his hand came over hers.
She turned.
He was looking at her with an unreadable expression.
"You sure you are good?" he asked.
"Better." She held his gaze. "Still—" She pressed her lips together.
He looked at her for a moment. Then he opened the door and held it, and when she went through he followed, and at thebase of the stairs he said, quietly so only she could hear, "Come upstairs with me. We can shower and then make breakfast together.”
Her heart rate, which had been coming down from the run, did something different.
She went upstairs.
His bathroom was large and clean and smelled like him, something simple and grounded, cedar and soap, and he turned the shower on without asking, adjusting the temperature, and by the time he turned around the room was already filling with steam.
She stood in the middle of the bathroom and looked at him.
"Still angry?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. Honest.
"Okay." He crossed to her. Reached up and took the hem of her shirt and looked at her face, a question, and she lifted her arms and let him pull it over her head.
The air was warm already, the steam wrapping around them both.
"You're beautiful," he said.
She felt the truth of it land differently than compliments usually did, not as something to deflect or qualify, just as information he was giving her. She didn’t doubt for one second the words coming from his mouth. He thought she was beautiful and that admission meant more to her than any gift he could have given.
She reached up and started on his shirt.
He let her.
The shower was large enough for both of them and the water was the perfect temperature, and when he pulled her under the spray, she tipped her head back and let it hit her face and exhaled and felt his hands come to her shoulders.
His touch wasn’t like the other men she’d been with. It didn’t feel urgent with sexual need or like he was trying to push her toward anything. It was just there. He turned her, slowly, so her back was to him, and she felt him reach for the shampoo, heard the quiet of the bottle, and then his hands were in her hair and she stopped thinking.
He washed her hair with complete attention, his fingers working through from root to end, no rush, and she stood under the spray and felt the anger leaving in stages. Not forced out. Just — released. The way things released when someone was taking care of them. He massaged her head and she leaned back into him. It felt amazing.
"Close your eyes," he said.
She closed them.
He rinsed the shampoo out, slow and careful, one hand shielding her face from the water, and she thought about the way he'd saidyou're beautifuland the way it hadn't required anything from her in return. How carefully he was taking care of her right now, bathing her gently.
His hands moved to her shoulders again. Sliding down her arms, then back up. His arms came around her from behind, and he pressed his lips to her temple, the side of her head, the curve of her neck, unhurried and warm, and she turned her face toward him.
He kissed her jaw. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth.
She turned all the way and kissed him properly. It was the kind of kiss that took its time, slow and intentional. Then he took over. His lips were pressed firmly against hers and it wasn’t gentle. No, this was anything but. It was him reminding her whowas in charge. He let her kiss him, giving him the consent with her action, but then he took it over. His tongue charged in and mated with hers. Fully claiming her.
She pulled back to breathe.
