He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hurry me. He treats my body like something precious rather than something to consume.
When I step under the spray, the water is warm enough to soothe without stinging. He follows, his boxers discarded and kicked aside. The space feels intimate without being overwhelming.
“Sit,” he says, guiding me onto the built-in bench.
He wets my hair first, fingers working through gently, easing out tangles before adding shampoo. The scent blooms around us, familiar and grounding.
His hands move with purpose but patience, massaging my scalp in a way that makes my eyes close despite myself.
“Okay?” he asks quietly.
“Mmhmm.”
He rinses, then adds conditioner, working it through slowly, detangling with care. It feels like being taken apart and put back together at the same time.
He washes me too, careful around tender places, checking my face for reactions, adjusting when I hiss or flinch. Again, there’s nothing rushed or hungry about it. Just care.
“I’m pretty sure they’re in love with you,” he says casually, like he is commenting on the weather.
My eyes snap open. “Dorian.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “And you’re in very good hands.”
I swallow. “Do you love me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “More than anything.”
He leans in and kisses me again, deeper this time, full and certain. When we pull apart, my chest feels too full for words.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I whisper. “I’m glad you didn’t leave.”
“I promised I’d stay this time,” he says. “And I meant it.”
I look at him, really look at him. “I want you to stay.”
“Okay, baby,” he says, smiling.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ryker
Keepingmyself busy is the only way to deal with the nerves that threaten to consume me whole.
I’ll admit it, I’m still a mess.
If I stop moving, if I give my mind even a second of quiet, everything from the last five days comes crashing in at once.
The sounds. The scent. The way she clung to us like we were oxygen and she’d been holding her breath her whole life. The way it rewired something deep in my chest that I wasn’t prepared to name yet.
So I cook.
I crack another egg against the side of the bowl, watching the shell split cleanly. The yolk slides in whole, glossy, and intact.
Good. Control where I can get it.
I whisk harder than necessary, forearm tight, shoulder muscles flexing as I work the fork through yellow and white until it blurs together.
The pan is already hot. Butter foams the second it hits, popping and hissing loudly in the otherwise quiet house.
