Page 46 of Watching You
The water pounds down on us, a relentless rhythm that mirrors the pounding of my heart, the thrumming of blood through my veins. Steam curls around us, fogging the glass, blurring the edges of everything but her.
I want to stay here forever.
She’s pressed against me, soaked and shivering, but her eyes are steady—locked on mine like she’s daring me to move, to act, to mean it.
I let her down gently, her feet finding the slick tile, and I drop to my knees, not out of urgency, but reverence. My fingers find the waistband of her soaked pants, slow and careful, peeling them away like I’m unwrapping something sacred.
She flinches, just barely, and her hands fly to her stomach like muscle memory. Like she’s done it athousand times before. Like hiding is safer than being seen.
Anger rises in me, not at her, never at her, but at whatever made her feel like she had to shrink. Like she had to cover up. Like she wasn’t enough.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” I command, voice low but sharp. “Do you understand me?”
She doesn’t answer, eyes flicking away.
I move closer, water still pounding around us, steam curling between our bodies. I reach up and gently pull her chin down, forcing her to look at me.
“You’re fucking stunning,” I breathe. “Every inch. Every curve. Every breath you take.”
Her eyes fill, not with fear, but with something deeper. Something fragile. Like she’s trying to believe me but doesn’t know how.
So I say it again, slower this time. “You are stunning.”
She swallows hard, hands still hovering, unsure.
I take them in mine, guide them down, press them to my chest. “You don’t have to hide from me. Not here. Not ever.”
And in that moment, I swear she lets me see her.
Not just her body.
Her heart.
Her history.
Her hope.
I stand slowly, steam curling around us, water still pounding down like it’s trying to drown the past. Her eyes follow me, wide and uncertain, but she doesn’t step back.
I take her hands, soaked and trembling, and press them to the waist of my jeans.
“Take my jeans off, sunflower,” I murmur, voice low, steady.
She hesitates. Her fingers twitch. “I-I don’t think—“
“Yes, you can.” I unbutton my jeans, slow and deliberate, then take her hand and guide it to the zipper. Her skin is warm from the water, her breath shallow, her eyes wide with something fragile.
“I want you to,” I whisper. “Not because I need it. Because I want you to know you’re allowed.”
She swallows hard, fingers trembling against the metal. I don’t rush her. I don’t push. I just stay close, steady, letting her feel the weight of my presence.
Her hand moves, slow and uncertain, and the zipper slides down with a soft rasp that feels louder than the water pounding around us.
I step out of the denim, soaked fabric pooling at my feet, and I’m standing there bare, vulnerable, hers.
Then her hand flies to her eyes, shielding herself like she’s seen too much or maybe not enough.
“Hey, it’s just me. Look at me.” I gently pull her hand away, my fingers closing over hers. Her eyes are shining, tears and steam blurring the edges of everything.
