"We should clean up," Sebastian murmurs against my hair, but his arms tighten around me, contradicting his words.
"Five more minutes," I whisper, not ready to break the connection, to return to a world where Cheryl is dead and I've thrown my career away. Here, skin to skin with Sebastian, everything else feels distant.
Tracing lazy patterns on my back, his fingertips skim the curve of my spine with a tenderness that makes my throat tight. When did this man become someone whose touch could both set me on fire and soothe my broken pieces?
"You're thinking too loud," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple.
I smile against his skin. "Just wondering how we got here."
"By car. Very long drive."
I pinch his side, and he jumps slightly beneath me. "Smart-ass."
"One of my many charming qualities." His hand slides lower, cupping my ass, then moves to my thigh, where his release is now definitely making a mess of the sheets. "Come on, Trouble. Bath time."
Before I can protest, he shifts us, carefully disconnecting our bodies. I make a small noise of disappointment at the loss, but he silences it with a swift kiss. Then he stands and scoops me into his arms like I weigh nothing.
"I can walk," I protest weakly, even as my arms loop around his neck.
"I know." He adjusts his grip, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back. "I prefer this."
Something about the casual display of strength, the way he carries me with such ease, makes heat bloom in my belly again. I nestle against his chest as he navigates through the bedroom door toward the bathroom and settles me on the edge of the tub.
"Wait here," he says, dropping a kiss on my bare shoulder before turning to the taps.
I watch him move as he adjusts the water temperature. Steam begins to rise, curling around his naked form like possessive fingers. He reaches for a jar on a nearby shelf and unscrews the lid to release the scent of lavender into the foggy air.
When the tub is full, Sebastian steps in first, his tall frame folding with surprising grace as he lowers himself into the steaming water. He extends his hand to me, and I take it, allowing him to guide me as I step into the bath. The water ishot, deliciously so, and I hiss slightly as it engulfs my legs, my hips and waist.
"Turn around," he instructs, and I do, settling between his outstretched legs, my back to his chest.
For several minutes, we simply soak in silence, letting the heat seep into tired muscles. Sebastian's hands begin to move, cupping water to pour over my shoulders, my chest, anywhere the bath doesn't quite reach. His touch is reverent, almost worshipful, and it makes something crack inside me.
When he reaches for a washcloth and soap, I surrender to his care and let my head fall back against his shoulder. He works methodically, washing me with gentle strokes. There's nothing sexual in his touch now, just pure tenderness that makes my eyes sting with unexpected tears.
"You're thinking again," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble I feel through his chest against my back.
I swallow hard. "About my dad."
His hands pause for just a moment before resuming their gentle path across my skin. "Tell me about him."
The invitation is simple, free of pressure or expectation. And maybe it's the warmth of the water, or the safety of Sebastian's arms around me, or the distance from the hospital and all its reminders of failure, but suddenly I want to talk. Need to talk.
"He was a mechanic," I begin. "Brilliant with engines. Could diagnose a problem just by listening." I feel Sebastian's smile against my temple as I continue. "It was just the two of us after my mom died. I was only three when it happened, so I don't really remember her."
Sebastian's thumbs work small circles on my shoulders, loosening knots of tension I didn't know I was carrying. The gentle pressure encourages me to continue.
"He was everything to me. My whole world." My throat tightens, but I push on. "When he started getting sick, I was inmy third year of med school. Headaches at first. Then fatigue. Memory problems. Balance issues."
My body tenses with each painful memory, fingers digging into the edge of the tub.
"The doctors kept saying it was stress, or migraines, or early-onset dementia. But nothing fit. And I—" My voice cracks. "I didn't push hard enough. I was so busy with rotations and exams. I told him to rest, to drink more water, to take the medications they prescribed. I should have known better. I should have demanded more tests."
Sebastian remains silent, but his presence behind me is unwavering.
"By the time they finally ran the right tests, it was too late. Some rare autoimmune vasculitis. His brain was literally destroying itself, and I missed all the signs." Tears spill over, mingling with the bathwater. "He slipped into a coma a week after the diagnosis. Died three days later. And I was there, useless, watching machines monitor his decline instead of stopping it."
A sob builds in my chest, but I force it down. My next words come out as a broken whisper. "Just like with Cheryl. Too late. Always too fucking late."
