When I turn back, she's awake—barely—watching me with heavy-lidded eyes and a sleepy smile.
I reach for her, starting to peel Lorcan's oversized shirt off her body.
She giggles.
Then her hands are on my suit jacket, tugging it off my shoulders with surprising coordination for someone half-asleep. The jacket hits the floor. Her fingers find my tie next, working the knot loose.
I allow it.
Might even enjoy how she cheekily gets me out of my dark suit—the vest, the shirt, the belt. Her movements are playful, unburdened by protocol, or demerits, or the weight of performing.
When we're both naked, I step into the tub first and extend my hand.
She takes it without hesitation, climbing in and settling back against my chest with a contented sigh.
I smile and wrap my arms around her.
We sit there in the steam and silence, her body fitting perfectly against mine.
After a few minutes, I reach for the soap and begin washing my Little Miss Take. Slow, methodical strokes down her arms, across her shoulders. Washing away Lorcan's scent, his touch, his claim.
Emmaleen perks up slightly, head tilting back to look at me.
"Did you know," she begins, voice still sleepy but gaining energy, "that there's a conspiracy theory that marsupials actually came from South America? Like, they think the common ancestor migrated through Antarctica when it wasn't frozen yet, which is wild because?—"
I smile.
Listen to her ramble about continental drift and marsupial migration patterns while I wash her fingers.
She cycles into another tangent—this time about the history of baseball, which she launches into with absolutely no preamble or explanation for why the fuck we're talking about it now.
"—and Babe Ruth's called shot is actually super controversial because some historians think he was just pointing at the pitcher, not predicting the home run, but then again his stats that season were insane—714 career home runs, which stood for almost forty years until Hank Aaron?—"
I can't help it. I chuckle against her wet hair.
She quotesstatistics. Actual numbers. For a sport I'm fairly certain she's never watched in her life.
It's fucking absurd.
And I can't live without it.
My hands slide down her arms, washing away the last traces of Lorcan's touch while she continues without pause.
"—so vinyl records actually havegroovesthat correspond to the sound waves, right? Like the needle literally vibrates based on the physical shape carved into the plastic, which is why audiophiles insist they sound better than digital because there's no compression, no data loss, just pure analog reproduction of the original recording?—"
I press my lips to her shoulder.
She doesn't even pause.
"—and fun fact, the first record player was invented by Thomas Edison in 1877, but it used cylinders instead of discs,and the quality was garbage because the needles were so heavy they'd literally destroy the recording after like ten plays?—"
"Emmaleen," I murmur against her skin.
"—which is why Emile Berliner's gramophone was revolutionary because flat discs could be mass-produced and the needles were lighter so you could actually listen to music more than once without ruining it?—"
"Miss Take."
She stops.
