His chest rumbles with a chuckle, the vibration sinking into my skin. "Noted."

I don't tell him that I liked it—the ease of it, the control of it, the sheer strength of it. I don't mention how much I enjoyed the firm grip of his hands on me, like there is no way in hell he'd ever let me fall, or the way he moves, confident and unbothered, like he could carry me across the city without breaking a sweat.

Instead, I let him take me. Let him care for me. Let him do what I'm still learning how to accept.

He brings me into my bathroom and puts me down gently. My feet touch the cold tile and I wiggle my toes at the sensation as he turns on the shower. The pipes in my old apartment building groan to life. I shake my head as I watch him. He's so unreasonably large, taking up so much of the space, making my standard-sized bathroom feel miniature.

The first hit of warm water cascades down my back as he leads me inside, relaxing muscles I didn't even realize were tense. The pressure is perfect, needles of heat easing away the day's strain. Steam rises, thick and soft, wrapping around us, fogging the mirror, muffling the world outside.

And then Cal steps in behind me. His presence is immediate, overwhelming, suffocating in the best possible way. His chest is inches from my back, his body so close I can feel him, but he doesn't touch me. Not yet. Instead, he lets the water do its work, warming us both, washing clean the mess we made together.

Then his hands find me—slow and careful. His fingers glide over my skin, reverent, focused, spreading body wash over my arms, my stomach, my thighs. The soap creates a slick path, bubbles forming against my dampened skin.

It's not sexual. But it's intimate. More intimate than anything I've ever known. He's thorough, methodical, his touch firm but gentle, like he's memorizing every inch of me, mapping me out, soaking me in. I close my eyes, focusing on the sensation of him moving over me, his palms smoothing up my back, fingers spreading across my shoulders before sliding down my spine. The water drums against us, creating a rhythm that matches my heartbeat.

I feel his breath against the back of my neck and the light scrape of his stubble against my damp skin. Then he tilts my chin up, forcing me to look at him—he looks wrecked. His eyes are heavy-lidded, mouth slack with need, dark hair damp and curling at the ends, water droplets clinging to his lashes. One slides down the sharp cut of his jaw, trails over his throat, and disappears down his chest. I watch its path, spellbound.

His thumb brushes my bottom lip with a soft, slow, teasing stroke. When he speaks, his voice is warm. "You were amazing."

I don't know how to take compliments when they're real, and when they come from a man who actually means them. So I duck my head, let him finish cleaning me off, and don't argue. Which, if I'm being honest, might be a first for me.

By the time we step out of the bathroom, my skin is still warm, my hair damp and clinging to my shoulders, the soft cotton of my tank top cool against my freshly showered skin. The fabric stretches across my fuller curves. But now that doesn’t seem to bother me. I feel relaxed, clean, lighter than I've felt in days.

And then I turn and forget how to function, because Cal is standing there in nothing but boxer briefs. Somehow, this is more unfair than when he was completely naked, because now there's just enough left to torment me, to tease and taunt, making my brain short-circuit as I drink him in, all broad muscle and tight definition. His thick thighs flex slightly as he moves, the deep V of his hips disappearing beneath black fabric, his stomach so fucking sculpted it's almost indecent.

And he knows it. I know he fucking knows it. Because his lips curve ever so slightly as he steps forward and tucks me into bed. He's gentle, like I'm precious, like I'm what he intends to keep.

Then he leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead that lingers. His lips are gentle, heat blooming where they touch.

"Stay," he murmurs, each word sinking into me. "I’ll be right back."

I nod, barely registering his words, still too distracted by the fact that I can literally see every single muscle flex as he turns away. The tattoos stretching across his back ripple with each movement. I watch as he walks toward the door.

And then he's gone, disappearing through the doorway. I have approximately thirty seconds to compose myself. I fail.

When he returns, it's with a serving tray balanced in his hands.

A fucking serving tray. My eyes narrow immediately. "Where the hell did you even get that?"

He looks smug as he sets the tray down on my lap, completely unfazed. The warmth seeps through the blanket onto my thighs. "Snuck it in while you were sleeping."

I gape at him. "You smuggled in cookware?"

He shrugs, handing me a glass of wine like this is the most normal evening in the world. The deep burgundy liquid catches the soft light from my bedside lamp. "I was planning ahead."

I sputter out a laugh, shaking my head. Unbelievable. He's been invading my life, my space, my apartment—and I didn't even notice. Or maybe I did. Maybe I just never wanted to stop him.

I take a sip of wine, the rich flavor filling my mouth, watching as he settles in beside me. The mattress shifts with his weight, automatically bringing me closer to him as the surface dips. He grabs his own plate, starts eating like this is our routine, like this is just what we do, like he belongs here. Maybe he does. Maybe this is just what my life looks like now.

I take a bite, and tears hit fast. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding—and then it’s just happening.

Hot, unstoppable, ugly crying. And even I don’t know where it came from.

Cal freezes, fork midair, his eyes widening slightly. "Jesus. Did I overcook it or something?"

I sniffle, letting out a choked laugh, wiping my face with the back of my hand. "No. Oh my god, no."

He still looks at me like I'm an alien as I shake my head, voice shaky, laughing through the tears. "Everything's just... perfect. And I guess that's why I'm crying."

His brow furrows. "You're crying because it's perfect?"

I laugh harder, half-sobbing, half-giggling, and he's still just sitting there, watching me like I've lost my goddamn mind. "Stop teasing me, you asshole."

His expression softens, his lips twitch, and then he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to my temple. "I get it," he says, his voice completely sincere. "You don't have to explain it if you don't want to."

I breathe out, shaky, trying to pull myself together with another sip of wine and a deep inhale. And then I say it, because I need to, because I've never said it out loud before: "Everything was so wrong with Evan."

I stare down at my plate, pushing the food around with my fork. The tines scrape against the ceramic with a soft sound. "And I just... never even knew." I let out a soft laugh, sad and self-deprecating. "I was in that tunnel, you know? I didn't know there was an entire world outside of it, full of trees and sunlight."

Cal is quiet for a long moment before he finally responds, softly, knowingly, like he's been there himself: "Yeah. I know what you mean."

I sip my wine, stealing a glance at him from the corner of my eye. He looks so at ease, leaning against my headboard, broad shoulders relaxed, his hand idly twisting his fork as he chews, working through his food like there was never a time before him.

My fingers tap against my glass, the soft ping of my nail against the crystal creating a nervous rhythm. I hesitate before carefully venturing the question that's been sitting in the back of my mind all night: "Can I ask you something?"