I moved lower on his body... slowly—trailing the sponge across his chest. My eyes followed the movents of my own hands, entranced by the slope of his collarbone, the slight twitch of his abdon, and the way the water clung to his lashes like tiny crystals.
His chest rose and fell—steadily, but deeper now.
"You’re staring," he murmured.
"I’m inspecting," I whispered.
He chuckled low. "Should I flex?"
"Please don’t."
He flexed anyway. I dropped the sponge.
"You’re a bully," I groaned, reaching to pick it up.
His hand caught mine. I froze.
The atmosphere thickened around us, heavy with heat and sothing else I couldn’t na.
He raised my hand and pressed it to his bare chest, letting my palm rest directly over his heart. It beat strong and steady beneath my fingers.
"You feel that?" he asked quietly.
I nodded, unable to speak.
"That’s all yours."
And I broke. Not into pieces. But into feeling. Like sothing in had lted and reford.
Those three words sent my senses spiraling away. I cupped his face with both hands and kissed him gently and clumsily, like I had to learn this language with him and him alone.
He leaned into it, deepening the kiss just enough to make my heart race but not enough to scare . Then he took the sponge from my limp fingers and handed the shampoo.
"Wash my hair?"
He just broke our kiss right when it started to get better. Why?
Nevertheless, I gave a watery laugh. "You’re really milking this husband privilege early."
"I’m preparing you."
"For what?"
He grinned. "A lifeti of being spoiled."
Oh, Axel... if only.
So I stepped up, lathered my fingers, and began to run them through his hair. He groaned again—but this ti it sounded like peace. Like ho. His eyes closed, and he tilted his head into my touch.
"You’re good at this," he murmured.
"I’ve never done this before," I admitted.
"Exactly."
When I finished, he rinsed, turned off the water, and reached for a towel. But I stopped him.
"I’ll do it."
This caught him off-guard, too. His reaction was a stiffen and an arched brow.
So I dried him. Slowly. Lovingly.
Every inch of skin I touched felt like permission I hadn’t known I’d earned. He let take my ti, let fumble and blush and laugh when I accidentally tickled him.
After we were done in the shower, he carried to the bedroom. There, on the bed, was one of his shirts and a pair of sweatpants. They slled like his cologne—clean and wool and just a little wild.
"I hope it’s okay," he said, setting down gently. "I wasn’t sure what size you’d like."
"I like this," I said, pulling the shirt to my chest.
"You like slling like ?"
My eyes darted to his. "Is this a trick question?"
He laughed and looked away, clearly pleased.
"Okay. Now you turn around so I can change." " I said, gripping the towel tighter which was foolish considering the mont we had just shared in the bathroom.
He raised his hands in mock surrender and spun. "I’m a gentleman."
"You are not," I muttered when he swerved right back to watch.
I slid into his shirt. It was so big, it fell to my mid-thigh, and I tugged the sweatpants up, cinching the waist with the drawstring. The fabric was soft, and worn, like soone had loved it for a long ti.
"All done."
He nodded, grinning from ear ti ear. "You look..."
"What?"
"Like you belong here."
I swallowed. I didn’t know how to answer that.
.
.
And when we were both dressed and in bed, forgetting all about our agreent about couches, he pulled into his chest and whispered, "Thank you."
I looked up. "For what?"
"For making feel... like myself again."
The breath left my lungs.
And I thought: Maybe love wasn’t a grand, thundering thing. Maybe it was a sponge. A laugh. A heartbeat under your hand.
And a man who lets you see him... every inch, every scar—and still smiles like you’re the best thing he’s ever known.
I didn’t think I’d ever fall asleep with a man’s arm slung over my waist. But here we were.
The lights were off, the night air humming through the cracked window, and Axel’s chest was rising and falling behind like the tide.
It was steady, dependable, and warm. He was curled around like I was sothing precious, and his palm rested just beneath my ribs as if guarding the last bit of that still doubted I deserved to be held like this.
"Comfy?" he murmured into my hair, his voice husky with sleep.
I shifted a little, pressing my back into his chest until our bodies aligned just so. "Mm-hmm. Shockingly, yes. I thought I’d be awkward. You know... flail in my sleep, elbow your face, accidentally kick you off the bed."
He chuckled low, the sound vibrating through my spine. "Still ti."
"Is that a threat or a challenge?"
"Whichever gets more cuddles."
God, he was agonized. And yet... I liked him like this. Soft-edged. Drowsy. Unfiltered and not the ever-serious Axel I used to know.
My fingers found his and tangled together, palm to palm like I was about to begin a prayer. "You really ant what you said? That I’m beautiful?"
He didn’t hesitate. "Absolutely. With or without the scar."
I swallowed. It was stupid how much that one word; scar—still snagged in my throat. Like a fishbone, lodged into it and sharp. But he said it without flinching. Like it wasn’t sothing monstrous. Like it was just a part of .
"Thank you," I whispered.
He kissed the back of my head. "You don’t have to thank for telling the truth."
"You’d be surprised how few people do."
"Well, they’re idiots."
I smiled, my cheek rubbing against the pillow. "Can I ask you sothing?"
"Anything."
"Do you ever get scared?"
The silence descended for a mont too long, and I wondered if I’d broken the spell of our mont with my ridiculous question.
Then he said, very quietly, "All the ti."
My breath ceased.
"Especially when it cos to you," he added.
When it ca to , the almighty Axel was scared.
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