I hold him tighter on instinct. I don’t want to be parted from him, not even for a second.
I force myself to breathe. My throat burns slightly, but I manage the familiar calming pattern.
By the time we reach the top of the stairs and enter a large bedroom, my pulse has slowed to a semblance of a normal rhythm.
Rand carries me into the ensuite bathroom and sets me down on my sodden sneakers, keeping his hands braced at my waist to steady me.
“I have clothes you can wear while I wash yours,” he says. “I’ll put them on the bed. Call for me when you’re ready.”
My fingers flex into his arms. “Rand…”
He presses a tender kiss to my forehead. “I’ll be just down the hall. You need to get warmed up.”
I nod reluctantly. I’m cold down to my bones, and I stink. My mouth feels foul.
“There’s a spare toothbrush in the drawer under the sink,” he says, reading my disgust at my current state.
“I’ll be alright,” I promise weakly. “You need to get warmed up too.”
He ghosts another kiss over my forehead and leaves the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
I lock my knees to prevent them from folding.
I won’t allow myself to fall to pieces.
Instead, I trudge to the sink and find the toothbrush. I’ll feel more human once I wash the river off me.
Twenty minutes later,I’m clean and dressed in Rand’s massive t-shirt. I decided against the sweatpants he left out for me—trying to make them fit would be comical.
I don’t feel like laughing.
The shirt is big enough to cover me almost down to my knees.
He promised to wash my clothes, so at least I’ll have my sports top and running shorts back once the cycle ends.
“Rand?” I call out. “I’m decent.”
Well, that’s not exactly true. I’m not wearing a bra or underwear, but I’m not willing to hide away until my clothes are fully dry.
I need to be with the man who saved my life.
I need him to hold me.
It goes against all of my independent sensibilities, but the walls I’ve built to keep everyone else out have crumbled when it comes to him.
He appears at the threshold to the bedroom. His hair is darker when it’s wet, curling softly around his shoulders.
He’s imposing as ever in his black athletic gear—similar to the long-sleeved shirt and sweats he wore on our run.
His eyes flick over me, as though assessing me for injuries.
Judging by the way his nostrils flare, he’s noted that I haven’t put on the sweatpants, and I’m not wearing a bra.
I don’t exactly have a choice in my attire right now, and he’s not the kind of guy to make a skeevy comment about it.
“I’m sorry I failed you,” he says, voice raw from the exertion of fighting the current to get to me.
I cross the distance between us and trail my fingers over his tight jaw. “You didn’t fail me. You saved my life.”
