“You don’t feel fragile,” he says quietly.
I take a second. “Is that… a compliment?”
“Yes.”
My heartbeat stutters a little. “Good. Because I don’t feel fragile. I feel…” I pause, searching for the right word. “Capable. Like I can be scared and still move forward.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “That matters.”
The water begins to cool before either of us notices. The temperature fades to lukewarm, reminding us we’re still very much in a motel bathroom with limited hot water.
I sigh dramatically. “I think the universe is telling us to wrap this up.”
He snorts. “The universe is impatient.”
We disentangle slowly, reluctantly, both of us moving with a care that feels instinctive now. Boone reaches for a towel first—thick, scratchy, motel-quality—and drapes it around my shoulders without being asked.
The simple act nearly undoes me.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
He nods, then grabs another towel for himself, movements a little stiff, like he’s still adjusting to being contained in this smaller body. Watching him like this—human, but still unmistakably Boone—sends a strange pang through me.
I want all of him. Every version. The thought startles me with its intensity.
We step out of the shower, steam spilling into the room, and the cool air raises goose bumps along my skin. Boone moves immediately, wrapping the towel tighter around me, his hand warm and steady at my shoulder.
“Cold?” he asks.
“Only a little,” I admit.
He guides me toward the bed without comment, sitting me down gently before moving to grab our clothes. The normalcy of it—this quiet, practical care after the intensity we just shared—feels grounding in a way I didn’t know I needed.
When he sits beside me again, fully clothed now, I lean into him without thinking. He accepts it just as easily, arm coming around me, pulling me close until my head rests against his chest.
I can hear his heartbeat. Slow. Steady.
Safe.
“Boone?” I say softly.
“Yes.”
“I’ve been thinking about… the future,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Not in a panicked way. Just… aware.”
His arm tightens slightly. “And?”
“And I don’t have answers yet,” I continue. “But I know I don’t want to stop this.”
He exhales, a long, controlled breath, like he’s been holding something in. “Neither do I.”
The words settle between us, simple and heavy and reassuring all at once.
I tilt my head, looking up at him. “We’re good, right?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “We are very good.”
I smile, contentment blooming warm and bright in my chest. Outside, a car passes, tires hissing softly against pavement, the ordinary world continuing on without any idea what’s just shifted in this small, unremarkable room.
