I kiss her.
Not slow.
Not careful.
It’s deep and claiming and a little desperate—because I don’t know how to do this halfway when it comes to her.
Never have.
And she lets me.
God, she lets me.
Melts right into it like she always used to, like we didn’t spend three years apart pretending we weren’t everything to each other.
My chest tightens.
Because that right there?
That’s hope.
Dangerous, fragile, too-fucking-precious hope.
Then the water turns ice cold.
She squeals, jerking against me, and just like that the moment cracks.
We both laugh—real, unfiltered, a little breathless—and it feels normal.
Better than normal.
It feels perfect.
Like we slipped into some version of us that never broke.
I reach behind the curtain, grabbing the thin towels, shaking one out before wrapping it around her shoulders, then another.
“Here,” I murmur, my hands lingering a second too long as I tuck it around her. “Warm enough?”
“There’re only two,” she says, already fussing. “You take one.”
I shake my head, stepping back just enough to give her space.
“I’m good, Sweetheart.”
“Benji,” she scolds softly.
And before I can argue, she’s tugging one off her shoulders and wrapping it around my waist, her fingers brushing my skin like it’s nothing.
Like she hasn’t just undone me in ten different ways.
I let her.
I don’t fight it.
Don’t stop her.
Because I like it.
