Page 133 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
My hands still.
She turns, blinking at me through wet lashes. There’s something raw in her eyes that nearly levels me.
“This wasn’t part of the deal,” she says.
“What? Washing your hair?”
“All of this.” Her voice wavers. “You’re not supposed to be like this.”
“Like what?”
“Tender.”
She says it like an accusation.
I blink. She’s wet, bare, vulnerable in a way she probably didn’t mean to be, and looking at me like I just ruined something we promised not to touch.
“I’m not trying to make this complicated,” I say carefully.
“I know. But it is.”
And there it is.
The retreat.
The wall is going back up.
She steps away, grabs the soap like it’s armor, and scrubs at her arms like she’s trying to erase the way I just kissed her shoulder like it meant something.
“Olivia—”
“I’m good,” she says too brightly. “Clean. Satisfied. Hydrated. Ready to go.”
She doesn’t look at me when she says it. Just grabs the soap like a shield and starts scrubbing her arms like she can erase the tenderness from her skin.
So I don’t push.
I don’t ask her to stay. Or to talk. Or to feel anything she’s not ready to feel.
Instead, I grab the soap and help her anyway—gently washing her back, and arms, running suds down her spine and across the curve of her hip, even though she’s already mostly done. Even though she’s pretending this didn’t mean anything.
Even though I already know I’ll do it again tomorrow.
And the day after that.
Because I want to.
Because I’m fucked.
And maybe—just maybe—so is she.
We finish the shower in silence, our bodies close, skin brushing skin as the water rinses us clean. I towel her off first. Soft and slow. Her cheeks are pink from heat, her hair curling around her temples, and she doesn’t flinch when I dry the back of her neck. She just lets me.
Then I dry myself and press a kiss to her damp hair like a goddamn goner. Like, I don’t care that she’s pretending we’refine and I’m pretending I don’t want to kiss her until we’re both raw again.
I hand her one of my old T-shirts, and she pulls it over her head without comment. It hangs on her like temptation—like a dare.
Still, I say nothing.
