Page 96 of California Wild

She wasn’t the stage, the headlines, the pressure.

She was his.

And if she stayed too long in that truth, if she lingered in the softness of his breath on her skin and the quiet way he held her after like he was afraid she might vanish—

She might not leave at all.

The steam hadn’t faded.

It still curled through the air like breath, like memory, wrapping around them in soft waves. The water pounded down from above, echoing against tile, but Jesse’s body had stilled. The urgency was gone now. The firebank of it still glowed beneath her skin, but he was no longer devouring her.

He was holding her.

One arm still wrapped around her back, the other hand splayed wide across her ribs, anchoring her to him. His head bowed against her shoulder like he didn’t know how to let go.

Like he was afraid to blink and find her gone again.

She could feel it in the way his fingers moved—slow, reverent, hesitant. The need was still there, but it was gentler now, aching in a different way.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just pressed a kiss to the slope of her neck, then one to her shoulder, his lips wet and warm and lingering.

Hayley let herself breathe again.

Let herself lean into it.

Six weeks without him had felt like a fracture that never healed. And now, standing here wrapped in his arms, she could feel every crack.

Jesse exhaled against her skin and reached for the soap. She felt his muscles shift behind her, the scrape of the bar against his palms, the slow building lather.

“Turn around,” he said.

His voice was soft, rough with something she couldn’t name.

She turned, her back to him, forehead resting gently against the cool tile as the water poured down her spine. She heard him shift closer. Felt the warmth of him at her back. Then—

His hands.

Soapy. Strong. Tender.

He started at her shoulders, thumbs circling slowly over tight muscles, working through the tension with practiced care. Not in a rush. Not trying to make it something else. Just… loving her.

She closed her eyes, letting it wash over her.

His hands moved down her arms, her sides, her waist. Slow. Deliberate. Memorizing.

And then—her stomach.

He paused.

Only for a second. But she felt it.

His touch there was softer. Barely pressure. Just the barest sweep of his thumbs over the curve of her abdomen, where she hadn’t told him what she suspected. Not yet.

“You lost weight.” His voice was low. Controlled. But there was an edge in it. Worry.

She swallowed. “I guess.”

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