Standing in front of the mirror, my eyes catch on a dark stain smudged across the hem of his hoodie. More blood. A strange mix of embarrassment and shock settles in my chest—undeniable proof that something irreversible happened tonight.
He notices too, stepping behind me while the steam curls around us. His fingers lift the hoodie, peeling it slowly up and over my head, his eyes holding mine in the reflection the entiretime. I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being undressed.
“You seem to have a thing for mirrors,” I manage, my voice breathless.
He presses a soft kiss to my bare shoulder. “I have a thing for you,” he says, voice low in my ear, before sliding the straps of my bra off one by one. Then he sinks to his knees on the cold tile floor, stripping my leggings off my body.
I watch us in the reflection but freeze when my gaze snags on a faint bruise beneath my collarbone. His fingerprints, or mouth maybe. My eyes trail lower, lingering on the dried blood on the inside of my thigh.
My hands smooth over my stomach. I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me, as if I’ve stepped into someone else’s life by accident.
Wesley strips completely and pulls me under the steamy shower spray with him. The water rushes over us, the perfect temperature, instantly relieving the tension and aches in my muscles.
He gathers all my hair away from my face, letting it fall down my back before he slowly lathers me with soap.
The moment is intimate in a way that feels too big for the small space we’re standing in—naked, wet, quiet—but it’s not sexual.
There’s no hunger here.
No expectation.
Just me, and him, and the soft permission to exist together.
He turns me slowly, gently guiding me to face him, his hand steady on my waist. The washcloth glides over my skin in soft circles, wiping away the blood—the evidence—with tender, unhurried strokes. His touch lingers long after the cloth passes.
We silently rinse then dry off. I grab one of his hoodies hanging on the hook behind the door, slipping it over my head.No underwear. Just clean skin, wet hair, and my rapidly beating heart.
When I open the bathroom door, the room is dark except for the thin sliver of moonlight spilling through his curtains.
He’s in bed, already tucked under the covers—waiting for me.
I stand there in the doorway, frozen and unsure. Am I supposed to climb into bed and pretend none of this meant anything?
He hasn’t said anything since he took my clothes off. Maybe he regrets it. Maybe he’s trying to find a gentle way to take it all back. Meanwhile, I’m standing here in nothing but his hoodie and making everything uncomfortable.
I shift on my feet, anxiety crawling up my throat as he watches me, his expression unreadable in the dim lighting.
But then he lifts the corner of the duvet, a soft, wordless invitation.
My chest tightens but I shove it down, slipping beneath the covers. The mattress dips beneath our weight as I settle next to him. We lie on our sides, facing each other in the dark.
“Good night, Wesley,” I whisper, because it’s the only thing I can say without my voice cracking.
He pulls me into him, pressing his lips to my forehead. His reply is quiet, almost reverent. “Good night, Princess.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SADIE
Iwakeslowly,stillhalf-dreaming as the morning light brushes the edges of the room in a soft gold.
Wesley’s arm is draped over my waist, warm and solid as it folds me back into the unmistakable shape of him. His chest rises and falls against my spine in steady breaths. I want all of my mornings to begin this way—wrapped in his blankets that smell like cedar and fresh rain.
I had sex with Wesley.
The memory ripples through me, slicing through the remnants of my sleepy haze. My heart stumbles.
His arm tightens around me. His body is curled perfectly along mine, our legs intertwined with one another.
