My body aches, sore in every muscle, but stepping in behind her nearly undoes me. Her back meets my chest, sopping and hot, water pounding over us. My hands slide up her arms, circle her waist, and she melts back against me like she belongs there.
I kiss the curve of her damp neck, stubble rasping over sensitive skin. She shivers, knees buckling slightly.
“Turn around,” I murmur, voice rough.
She does, water sluicing between us, and I pin her gently against the tile. Not with a kiss, with care. I lather soap in my hands, starting at her shoulders, working down slowly. She watches me, wide-eyed, as I knead, circle, soothe.
It isn’t about sex. It’s worse. It’s care.
She trembles as I soap her arms, her stomach, her hips.
“You don’t have to—” she whispers, voice cracking.
“I want to.” My tone is quiet, firm, no room for argument.
Her eyes shine, and it hits me square in the chest.
I crouch, hands sliding down her thighs, lifting one legover my shoulder. For a second, she stutters, thinking I’ll take her again. Instead, I soap carefully behind her knee, down her calf, around her ankle, before setting her foot gently back. Then the other.
When I rise, she’s shaking. I rinse her slowly, sweeping suds from her skin, lingering where rug burn scraped her raw. Red marks I should’ve prevented. My jaw tightens.
“It’s nothing,” she whispers.
“It’s not nothing.” My thumb grazes tender skin again.
The water roars, but it’s only her and me. I cup her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, and kiss her slowly, patiently, memorizing every curve.
For the first time all night, I stop thinking about what comes next.
By the time we collapse into her bed, I’m clean and wrecked. The sheets are cool, the fan humming above, her body soft against mine. My arm falls heavily across her stomach, holding her like I can keep her here if I try hard enough.
Silence stretches, broken only by our breathing. I could let it stand, close to drifting off, but she whispers, “What are we doing?”
I blow out a rough breath. “Enjoying our Thanksgiving.”
She turns to look at me, no tease in her eyes. “We can’t pretend this didn’t happen.”
“No.” My thumb traces her hip, steady, grounding me. “But we can’t pretend it’s simple, either.”
She swallows, voice catching. “I have to protect him. If this blows up, Beckett’s the one caught in the middle.”
I know. Christ, I know. My hand tightens on her hip. “That’s why I’m not going to make promises I can’t keep. Not to you, not to him. This is all still new, Janie. There'sstill a lot of pain between us. Can we just allow ourselves some time?”
My chest aches as I say it, because part of me wants to make pledges, to tell her I’ll fix everything, that she can trust me to never falter.
But I know better. I’ve seen promises rot. My father promised he’d be proud of me. My mother promised she’d stand by me, protect me. Promises are worth shit when the ground caves under them.
Her face falls, but she doesn’t argue.
“So what, then?”
I stare at her, weighing the truth, the lies, all of it. Finally, I rasp, “We keep it quiet. See where it goes. I don’t know if this is possible. Let's work through it together before we decide where this goes. I'm not ready to give up. That has to be enough.”
The words taste like defeat even as they leave me. Because I want more. I want everything.
But the picture in my head is all jumbled. I see Blake’s face when he finds out, her parents’ disappointment, and the trust she has already shattered. I can’t let myself believe in a future I’m not sure we can survive.
She nods, even though the words make her stomach twist. “So this is…just sex?”