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She laughs, low and wicked, and drags me back under the water.

By the time we stumble out of the steam, towels barely clinging, the last of the adrenaline drains away, leaving her and me loose-limbed and boneless, like a swimmer after a long, punishing relay.

Taya’s hair is a mess of wet tangles, her cheek striped with a pink flush, eyes half-lidded and glassy.

She looks wrung out.

She looks perfect.

We crash onto the bed.

We’re not as desperate as we were in the shower. No more teeth, no nails. Just skin on skin, the hush of cotton sheets.

My chest aches with want, and when she curls into me, her fingers twining with mine, I feel something unfamiliar that I suspect is peace.

I trace the line of her jaw with the back of my knuckle, slow, reverent. “Tell me you’re not going to regret this.”

The look she gives me feels entirely unearned—and cherished anyway. “Never. But you still owe me pancakes and at least a dozen apologies.”

I nuzzle her shoulder. “I’ll start with the apologies now, if you want.”

She giggles. “Right!”

“I can do it on my knees, sweetheart.”

She lets out a husky laugh.

I grin, feeling her smile against my neck.

God, I want to burn this image into my memory—her, soft and loose, the hard shell of anger melted away.

I roll her onto her back, sheets twisting around our legs, and kiss her again.

This time, I go slow—map her skin inch by inch, relearning her, now with a different kind of love and certainty.

She touches my face, a feather-light brush, and for once, I let myself be held.

I let myself feel safe.

I fit myself to her, careful now, every movement unhurried.

Our bodies find the rhythm of old lovers, new again, each small sound amplified in the hush of the room: her gasp, my groan, the rustle of sheets.

When she arches up, her pulse thrums beneath my palms, and my heart stutters—part fear, part awe

After, Taya tucks her nose against my chest, breath warm on my skin.

“Don’t hurt me like that again,” she whispers. It’s a plea.

“Never.” I stroke her arm, reveling in being able to touch her like this, hold her like this.

She yawns, cuddles closer. “Sex between us is pretty good.”

“I think we had some help with all that adrenaline running through us. But you know, it is a terrible time to make decisions.”

She’s lying with her head on my chest and her hand flat on my sternum.

“Really?” There’s a teasing quality to her voice.