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I reach under her and lift her into my arms. She grabs for my neck in surprise as I carry her to the bathroom.
The huge rain shower is cold, and I step inside to turn on the water and adjust the temperature until it’s warm enough to steam.
“You’re still dressed,” she protests as I help her step inside.
“It’s fine.”
I wash her, warm her, my hands careful and patient on every inch of her as if all we have is this moment.
Because we do.
When my gaze meets hers as I wash her back, there’s understanding in it and a little awe.
I need to do this for her. To be here for her in every way, like I haven’t been.
She reaches for my shirt buttons, but I brush away her hand.
“Stop,” she murmurs.
I ignore her, continuing my task.
Until she speaks again, her voice commanding enough to make me still. “Tyler. Stop it.”
