“And now you’re going to sit in warm water like a normal person.”
“Define normal.”
“You’re stalling.”
“I’m assessing the situation.”
“You’re standing there arguing with a naked woman in a bathtub.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
I watch the calculation happen in real time. Rowan King does not like situations he didn’t plan or control. Unfortunately for him, I am currently both naked and issuing directives from a bathtub, which feels like a loophole in whatever mental rulebook he’s operating from.
Then, with a slow exhale, he pushes off the doorframe.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters.
His hands go to the hem of his shirt, and he pulls it over his head, tossing it toward the counter.
“Happy?”
“Extremely.”
I try to look normal about it. I do not succeed. Rowan shirtless should probably come with a warning label and a small legal disclaimer.
Next come the sleep pants.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and pauses for a second, looking at me.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Yes.”
“Of course, you are.”
He steps out of them and drops them onto the floor.
Even the simple movement looks a little careful. Not dramatic, just the quiet stiffness of someone whose body is still recovering from a brutal migraine.
And suddenly, the smug part of my brain shuts up for a second.
Right. He actually felt like dying earlier.
When he reaches the tub, he braces one hand on the edge and lowers himself in slowly.
The second the water reaches his waist, he exhales sharply.
“Fuck.”
“Too hot?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“You’ll survive.”
He settles into the water anyway, stretching his legs out carefully along the length of the tub.
For a moment, his shoulders stay tight.
