I can feel him shaking too, feel the tension running through him, the same desperate edge.
“I’m close,” I manage.
“Good.”
The word is a rasp against my lips.
His hand tightens.
His mouth drags along my jaw.
And when release hits it tears through me with humiliating force, my whole body jerking, forehead pressed hard to his shoulder to muffle the sound that leaves me.
Mark follows a heartbeat later with a low groan against my neck, his body tensing, then shuddering into mine.
For several seconds neither of us moves.
Just water.
Steam.
Both of us breathing heavily.
I open my eyes.
He is close enough that I can see droplets caught in his eyelashes.
Close enough that I can see the same stunned relief I can feel in my own chest.
Neither of us says anything.
There is nothing left to say that would improve on this.
For the first time in months, the distance is gone.
By the time we make it to the bed, we are both dressed again and quieter.
Not awkward.
Just quieter in the way people get when they have finally stopped running and are not yet sure what comes after.
Mark has pulled on joggers and a grey T-shirt.
I am wearing shorts and one of his shirts because mine is damp from the shower.
We lie on top of the duvet with the window cracked open, sea air moving softly through the room.
Mark is on his side facing me, head propped on one hand.
Just looking.
I stare at the ceiling for a while, trying to line my thoughts up into something coherent.
Eventually I say, “I’ve decided to move back.”
Mark doesn’t react immediately.
His eyes stay on mine.
