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My underwear is the last thing.

He hesitates. “Still okay?”

My eyes are still closed tight. “Mhm.”

He peels the waistband down slowly, not to tease but to keep from tangling my legs on the way. My face is burning, my arms are goose-bumped, and my stomach can’t decide whether to twist itself into a pretzel or drop out entirely. I stare at the bathwater, at the way the surface shivers as bubbles pop, and at nothing at all.

I’m standing there, shivering a little, completely exposed, when I realize Adrien is kneeling behind me. His face is right by my bare butt. I can literally feel his breath on my cheeks.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

My breathing picks up, and I start to squirm. That’s when Adrien clears his throat and stands.

Adrien gives me my space, or maybe he gives himself space. He turns away long enough to set my clothes neatly on the side of the sink, then pauses with his back to me, one hand on the counter’s edge. His shoulders don’t move; he’s breathing slowly and deeply, and I realize after a second that he’s probably giving me time to get myself together. Or maybe to check that I’m not going to bolt for the door, arms cuffed or not.

I’m not.

I’m standing there, naked except for the light pink cuffs around my wrists, and even though shame is eating me alive from the inside out, I wait, because I said I’d be good, and because running isn’t something I get to do. Not here. Not now.

After a beat, he turns back. His eyes flick up, just briefly, to my face and nowhere else. His mouth is set in that careful line, not a smile this time, but not a frown.

“Let’s get you in first and comfortable, then we’ll deal with the cuffs,” he says, his voice a little rough.

He keeps me steady as I step over the tub’s curved edge, lowering myself into the bath. The water is hotter than I expect, but it feels good.

I sink until my knees bump the other side. There’s not much room, so I turn sideways and kneel, facing the spout. I feel like a kid again, but Adrien seems satisfied with the arrangement.

“Good,” he says—and there it is again, that word.

I half-expect him to let me sit and stew in my own awkwardness, but instead, he lifts my arms, positioning them so my wrists are aligned just above my head, hands reaching for the ceiling.

“Keep them there,” he murmurs.

I do.

He takes the dark blue rope, threads it through the chain between my cuffs, and ties it to the shower rod with two practiced, gentle tugs. My arms are held up, but not in an uncomfortable or painful way—just enough that I can’t drop them into the water or easily lower myself.

I imagine I look ridiculous—a naked, blushing nineteen-year-old kneeling in a tub with his wrists tied to the sky, toes curling on the enamel.

“Not too tight?” he checks, and I shake my head, unable to do much more than squeak. “Tell me if it isn’t.” I nod.

Adrien sits on the rim of the tub, and doesn’t ask before he dips a hand into the water, lifting bubbles and letting them fall over my shoulder. His palm is warm. The sensation is odd, in part because it’s not sexual at all. He’s methodical, focused—not lingering anywhere, just getting the job done. He takes a cup from the bath ledge, fills it, and tips water over my head in slow pours.

The sound is loud in my ears. Warmth slides down my back. I shiver again, but this time it’s not just nerves.

Adrien smooths my hair back with his hand. “Close your eyes,” he tells me, and I do.

The tips of his fingers are firm as he works shampoo through my hair. It’s deeply embarrassing and deeply comforting, in the way that being cared for is always a little of both. My scalp feels so nice as he massages the shampoo into a rich lather. I feel like I could purr, and also like I could cry.

No one but my dad has ever given me a bath, so the last time I had one would’ve been over a decade ago.

But right now, I’m held here, suspended in the small world of Adrien’s hands, and there’s nothing I can do about it. He rinses my hair with more water, then repeats the process, slower this time.

When he’s satisfied, he uses a soft washcloth to dab at my face, circling around my eyes, then under my jaw and down my neck. He doesn’t seem to mind that I’m shivering, or that I’m red from the tips of my ears to my toes.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and focused. I’m not sure whether he means I’m doing well by not fighting him, or letting him clean me, or something else, so I stay quiet.

Eventually, I lose track of time.