19. Maddie
Maddie
Everything feels… quiet. Not the room. Not the world outside the walls.
Me.
Like something that’s been wound too tight for too long finally loosened all at once, leaving behind this strange, floating calm I don’t quite know what to do with. I don’t move at first. I don’t want to.
Because I’m still wrapped up in him, still half draped across his chest, his hand moving slowly along my back in a steady rhythm that feels grounding in a way I didn’t know I needed. There’s no urgency in it now. No heat. Just… presence.
Just him.
And the longer I stay there, the more it settles into something deeper than the moment we just came out of.
Safe.
The word comes quietly, almost like I don’t want to disturb it.
Wanted.
That one follows right behind it, heavier, fuller, sitting in my chest in a way I can actually feel instead of question.
I shift slightly, and his arm tightens around me instantly, not restrictive, just enough to remind me I’m still there, still with him, like he’s checking without asking.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, softer than anything I’ve heard from him before.
And I believe him. Completely. Before I can say anything back, before I can even process how easily that trust settles into place, he moves.
One arm slides beneath me, the other bracing at my back, and then I’m lifted like I weigh nothing, like it doesn’t take any effort at all to bring me with him as he stands.
A small sound slips out of me, half surprise, half something softer, and his hand tightens slightly in response.
“Easy,” he says, not correcting me, not teasing—just steadying.
He carries me into the bathroom without setting me down, the cool air brushing against my skin in a way that makes me instinctively lean closer into him. The lights flick on, softer than I expect, and he sets me carefully on the counter for a second while he turns on the shower.
The sound of water fills the space, warm steam starting to rise almost immediately, and I watch him as he moves—focused, deliberate, like this matters just as much as everything that came before it.
Maybe more. My wrists ache faintly, the reminder of it still there, and before I can even think about it, he’s already reaching for something, his touch gentle as he takes my hands, turning them slightly to check. His brow tightens just a fraction.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
The words aren’t sharp. They’re careful.
He reaches for a small bottle, working a cream between his fingers before smoothing it over my skin, slow, deliberate, his touch light but thorough, like he’s making sure nothing is missed, like he’s undoing any mark left behind.
It doesn’t hurt. It soothes. More than that—it settles something deeper, something I didn’t realize was still tense.
His thumb brushes over the inside of my wrist once more before he lets go, his gaze lifting to mine like he’s checking, like he needs to see that I’m okay before moving on.
“I’m okay,” I say softly.
He nods once, like he needed that. The shower is ready by the time he turns back, steam curling through the air, and when he reaches for me again, it’s just as steady, just as sure as before.
He helps me in, careful with every movement, his hands never rushing, never assuming.
The warmth wraps around me instantly, sinking into my skin, into my muscles, into everything that still feels a little too aware.
I tilt my head slightly, looking back at him through the steam. “Are you joining me?”
There’s a small smile at the corner of his mouth, something softer than I’ve seen from him before, something that feels like it belongs only here. “Of course.”
He steps in behind me a second later, the space shifting again, not crowded, just…
full. His hands find me without hesitation, one at my waist, the other reaching for the shampoo, his movements slow, unhurried as he works it through my hair.
His fingers are careful against my scalp, massaging gently, taking his time in a way that makes it impossible not to relax into it.
I close my eyes. Let it happen. Let him take care of me in a way no one ever has before.
He rinses it out just as slowly, his hand steady at the back of my neck, guiding me without pressure, and when he moves to wash the rest of me, it’s the same—careful, deliberate, like he’s aware of every place he touches and what it might mean.
There’s nothing rushed in it. Nothing careless.
Just… attention. And it does something to me that I don’t know how to explain.
By the time he turns the water off, I feel lighter.
Not just physically. Like something inside me has shifted into a place that feels…
right. He wraps me in a towel before I can reach for one, drying me off with the same quiet focus, the same care that’s been there since he carried me in.
And then I’m back in his arms again. Carried.
Held. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He brings me back to the bed and lowers me down carefully, like I might break if he moves too fast, like he’s not willing to risk it.
I watch him for a second as he moves around the room, everything about him calmer now, steadier, like he’s settled into something just as much as I have.
And when he comes back to me—I don’t hesitate.
I let myself sink into it. Into him. Into this.
Because for the first time in a long time—everything feels exactly where it’s supposed to be.
The quiet stretches. Not uncomfortable. Not heavy.
Just… still in a way that feels earned, like neither of us is trying to rush out of what just happened, like we’re both sitting in it long enough for it to settle into something real.
I’m curled into him, my cheek resting against his chest, his hand moving slowly along my back in a rhythm that feels absentminded but constant, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t stop. My body feels loose, my thoughts slower than usual, like everything sharp has been dulled down into something softer, something easier to hold.
And for a minute—I let myself stay there.
I let myself not think about anything outside of this room. Outside of him. But it doesn’t last. It never does.
“What happens next?” The question slips out before I can stop it, quiet against his chest, but it shifts something immediately, the stillness between us tightening just slightly.
His hand stills for a second before he moves, guiding me up with him until we’re both sitting against the headboard, the space between us changing without disappearing completely.
“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice steady, but there’s something more focused in it now.
I pull my knees in slightly, my fingers curling into the sheets as I try to organize something that doesn’t feel organized at all.
“I mean… us,” I say, glancing at him, then away again, because it’s easier to say it when I’m not looking directly into his eyes. “We still work together. Everything that made you not want this before… it’s still there.”
My voice dips slightly at the end, quieter now, because that part matters more than I want it to.
“And I’m still with Tyler.” The words feel wrong the second they leave my mouth. Smaller. Weaker. Like they don’t hold the same weight they did yesterday.
“The fuck you are.” His voice cuts through it immediately. Not loud. But sharp enough that it pulls my attention right back to him.
I turn toward him, startled by it, by the certainty in his tone, by the way there isn’t even a second of hesitation in it.
“You don’t have to tell him it’s over for it to be over,” he continues, his gaze locked on mine, intense in a way that makes it hard to look away. “The second he started treating you like that, it was done. You just hadn’t caught up to it yet.”
My chest tightens. Not because I don’t hear him. Because part of me does. Too much.
“We’re together.” He says it like it’s simple. Like it’s already decided. Like there’s no complication sitting behind it at all.
And the way he looks at me—like there isn’t a single reason this shouldn’t work—it does something to me that feels dangerously close to hope.
And that—that’s what snaps it.
Frustration rises fast, cutting through the softness that had settled in my chest just minutes ago, pushing me upright before I even realize I’m moving.
I stand, the shift sudden enough that the air between us changes immediately, and it’s only when I feel it—the way his gaze drops, the way something darker flashes in his eyes—that I remember.
I’m naked.
Heat rushes up my chest, my hand moving quickly, grabbing his t-shirt from where it was tossed earlier and pulling it over my head without thinking, the fabric falling down my thighs in a way that barely covers anything but feels like something.
Like armor. Like distance. I throw my hands up, frustration spilling over now that it’s there, now that I can’t push it back down.
“Why do you get to decide that now?” My voice isn’t quiet anymore. It’s not yelling. But it’s sharp. Hurt wrapped in something stronger. “I tried before,” I push, my chest rising and falling a little too fast now, everything catching up at once. “And you just… couldn’t do it.”
The words hang there, heavier than I want them to be, but I don’t take them back. I can’t.
“Why do you get to decide right now is the time?” I continue, my gaze locking onto his, not looking away this time. “Because of Tyler?” That one stings coming out. I feel it. But I don’t stop. “Did you sleep with me because you felt sorry for me?”
The question comes out quieter than everything else, but it hits harder. Because that’s the one I don’t want the answer to. And I’m not sure I can handle it if it’s yes.
He doesn’t answer me. Not right away. Not at all. And somehow that’s worse. Because he doesn’t look away either. He just holds my gaze, steady and unflinching, like nothing I just said scared him off, like none of it made him second guess what he’s doing here with me.
The silence stretches, thick and fragile all at once, and I feel it start to crack something open inside me, the edge of it sharp enough that I have to swallow hard to keep it together.
The tears come anyway. Not falling. Not yet.
But close enough that I feel them burn behind my eyes, threatening everything I just tried to hold onto.
I ruined it. The thought hits hard and fast, settling deep in my chest before I can stop it. That soft, safe place I had just been in… it’s gone now. And I want it back.
God, I want it back.
I want to take every word I just said and shove it back inside me, undo the moment, rewind it to where I was wrapped up in him and nothing felt sharp or confusing or too big to hold.
But I can’t. Because he’s already moving.
He pushes off the bed slowly, never breaking eye contact, and something in my chest tightens again, not from fear of him—but from fear of what he’s going to say.
Of what I’ll see in his face when he finally answers me.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t close the distance all at once.
He walks toward me like he knows exactly where this is going, like he’s not reacting—he’s deciding.
And when he reaches me—he doesn’t stop. His hand comes up, strong and sure as it wraps around the back of my neck, not rough, not hurting, but firm enough that I feel it everywhere, like it pulls my focus straight to him whether I want it to or not.
My breath catches. His thumb presses lightly at the base of my neck, grounding instead of restraining, his hold steady as he tilts my head just enough that I can’t look anywhere but at him.
“You weren’t listening very well earlier.” His voice is low. Controlled. But there’s something underneath it that feels heavier, something that doesn’t waver even a little.
“That’s on me,” he continues, not softening it, not backing away from it. “Means I need to be clearer next time.”
My chest tightens again, but differently now, like something is shifting instead of breaking. He doesn’t let go. Doesn’t loosen his hold.
“If I was doing this because of Tyler…” his gaze sharpens slightly, not angry, just… certain, “I wouldn’t have waited this long.”
My breath stutters. Because that—that feels true in a way I don’t want to question.
“I’m in this,” he says, slower now, each word deliberate, like he’s making sure I feel every part of it. “All the way.”
Something in my chest pulls tight around that. Not fear. Something deeper.
“I don’t want anything but you.” The words settle into me before I can brace for them, before I can twist them into something safer or smaller. “And now that I have you…” His grip tightens just slightly, enough that I feel it. “I'm not letting go.”
There’s no edge to it. No pressure. Just certainty. Like he already made that decision and nothing I said minutes ago changed it.
“Wrap your pretty head around that,” he adds, quieter now, something softer threading through it without taking away the weight.
And for a second—I can’t speak. Because the part of me that was bracing for him to pull away…
doesn’t know what to do when he doesn’t.
When he stays. When he steps closer instead of back.
My hands lift slightly without thinking, resting lightly against his chest, not pushing, not pulling—just there, like I need something solid to hold onto while everything else settles.
I swallow. Try to find something steady enough to say.
“Can we…” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to, my eyes flicking away from his for the first time since he walked toward me.
“Can we keep this between us for a little while?” It feels smaller than everything he just gave me.
But it’s real. “I don’t want anyone at work to know yet.
” I glance back up at him, searching now, hoping that doesn’t undo everything he just said, hoping I didn’t just push him again when he’s finally standing right in front of me.
“I just… I need a minute before it becomes something everyone else gets to see.”