"You don't have to stay," I say.
"I am staying."
"I'm fine. I'm just going to soak for a bit and—"
"You have glass dust in your hair."
I blink.
"What?"
"From the window. Small fragments. I can see them."
He reaches out, his sprawling, towering frame cupping the back of my head with absolute gentleness.
"I will wash it out," he says.
"Cyprian, you don't have to—"
"I am going to take care of you."
It's not a request.
It's a statement.
Absolute and unshakable.
I don't argue.
I just lean back and let him.
His hands are impossibly gentle as he works through my hair, his claws retracted completely, his fingers massaging my scalp with slow, deliberate pressure. He uses some kind ofexpensive-smelling shampoo that probably costs more than my old rent, working it through the strands with methodical care.
The glass dust rinses away.
So does the rain.
And the tension.
And the lingering adrenaline crash.
By the time he's finished, I'm completely boneless, my body melted into the hot water, my breathing slow and even.
"Thank you," I murmur.
"You do not need to thank me."
"I'm going to anyway."
His chest rumbles.
That deep, satisfied purr that makes my entire body react.
"Finish soaking," he says. "I will prepare something for you to wear."
He stands, his frame unfolding with surprising grace, and moves toward the walk-in closet.
I watch him go.
