Chapter 42
Forty-Two
Brielle
I took the plunge off the cliff, and now my body seeks penance.
Lethargy crawls through me until every step feels like walking through wet cement. Carson slides a supporting arm around my back, catching some of the load.
I’m not shutting down. I’m not hiding again. I’m just exhausted. So when we reach the landing and he dips to lift me, I let him. Let myself go boneless against him. Let the ghost of his lips skim the top of my head as he carries me into my room.
The bed greets me sideways, and I’m already sinking into the pull of oblivion—but his hands catch me, bracketing my shoulders. One drifts up to my cheek, unsteady, and I can’t tell if it’s him shaking or me.
“Give me a sec, yeah?” His voice comes muted, too muted, like he’s carrying something he doesn’t want me to hear. “Don’t fall asleep yet.”
I think I nod. Hard to tell.
It’s not long before noises spill from the bathroom, faucets running and drawers sliding open and shut.
Rain taps the window in its familiar rhythm, a rhythm that lulls. I can’t fight it; my eyes close.
It can’t have been more than a few minutes, but when Carson stirs me, I’m already collapsed sideways on the bed, feet dangling toward the floor.
“Come here,” he whispers, scooping me close again. “Let’s get you warm, then you can rest.”
Steam drifts in ribbons from the tub, ghosting around us as he sets me carefully on the counter. The open jar of rosemary salts waits by my side, already seeping through the air.
He kneels, sliding off my shoes, then works at the damp fabric clinging to my skin. I let him, heavy-lidded and too tired to do more than shift when he needs me to. He doesn’t speak. Just steadies me with a hand at my spine, guiding me to the tub.
The water swallows me whole, rose-hued and hot, and I sink into it with a shiver that breaks into an inaudible groan.
This is perfect. I tip my head back against the acrylic rim, keeping my eyes closed and just… resting. Relaxing. Giving my body what it’s been begging for.
The quiet’s stretched long enough to convince me Carson’s gone—until I feel it. The unmistakable pull of his presence. Then fingers, sure and certain, slide into my hair, and work up lather.
The groan that builds escapes fully this time, vibrating through the tiled room. His hands answer with more pressure, kneading like he’s intent on undoing what the day has carved into me.
Time slips. The world narrows to warm water and warmer hands. Some part of me braces for the inevitable—for questions, for confrontation—but it never comes. Carson gives me only silence, only touch, and God, it’s exactly what I need.
I’m spent, emptied to the bone. No words left. No tears either, I think. Because if I had any left, surely I’d be crying at the weight of this—being seen, being cared for, as if someone learned my edges well enough to catch the break before it came and pulled me back before I collapsed.
As awareness seeps in, I remember I wasn’t the only one caught in a downpour.
“Shorts and tee… yours,” I mumble. “Top drawer.”
No reply. Just the consistent motion of fingers in my hair tracing a spot that nearly undoes me. I almost lean into it. Almost ask for more. But the thought of him, still drenched, drags my eyes open.
I twist. So fast, his expression wipes clean. I blink, wondering if the fuzzy edges of my mind conjured up the look. The churn of utter devastation and anger sullying his features. “Carson?”
He clips out a head-shake, barely meeting my eyes. Okay. I guess I’m not the only one craving the quiet.
He nudges me forward, and I go with it, reaching half-heartedly for the washcloth. As he rinses the shampoo out of my hair, I swipe the cloth over my arms, my collarbone, half-limp and numb.
When I angle awkwardly for my back, he takes it from me, no words needed. His meaning is clear. He brushes my hair forward until it spills over my shoulder, then works the cloth in soothing, careful strokes, as if even cotton might bruise me. His touch doesn’t rush; it listens.
By the time he’s done, my chest aches in a different way.
The towel comes after that, then a robe, then the seamless shift from steam to the cool calm of linen sheets.
He tucks the comforter to my collarbone and straightens, like he means to leave. I don’t speak. Just stare. And when his gaze dips to mine, I see it. Recognition. He gauges the plea.
He’s a mass of lean muscles, but somehow his footsteps are phantom-like as he crosses to the white drawers. He pulls out a pair of shorts—his shorts—and lets the wet ones drop with a dull thud. His shirt follows.
But when it comes to the folded tee beneath, the one scrubbed of his scent from too many nights of me sleeping in it, his hand lingers on the drawer. His back knots tight, muscles bunched in a network of rigid lines.
A long minute passes. “Carson?” I rasp.
It snaps him out of it. He turns, and the mattress dips as he gives me what I asked for. Almost. One strong arm hooks around me, my back resting against his chest, the way we’ve drifted off before. But it isn’t enough this time.
I twist, burrowing closer, until my cheek presses to the center of him and my lips brush the rapid beat beneath his skin. This is where I need to be.
A strained exhale whistles out. Then, next to my temple, “Sleep, Brielle.”