He moved lower, washing her stomach, his hands spanning the width of her ribs, the dip of her waist. She was softer there than he’d expected, and her breath hitched when his fingers brushed the underside of her breast.
"Emeric." His name came out thin, strained.
"Tell me to stop."
She didn’t. Her hand found his wrist, but she didn’t push him away. She guided him, instead, her fingers curling around his, pressing his palm flat against her stomach. The water shifted around them, warm and close.
"I want to touch you," he said. "All of you. But I don’t want to push."
"You’re not pushing." Her eyes met his, dark in the candlelight, full of something that made his chest ache. "You’re asking. That’s the difference."
He took that as permission. He slid his hands higher, cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing across her nipples. She gasped, her back arching, the water sloshing around them. Her grip on his wrist tightened, not stopping him, just holding on.
"Emeric—"
"I have you."
She shook her head, a tiny motion, barely visible. "I know. That’s the problem. I—I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to realize what you’ve actually signed up for."
"I know what I’ve signed up for." His hands moved to her face, cupping her jaw, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. "I’ve signed up for you. Every part of you. The parts that work and the parts that don’t. The parts you let people see and the parts you hide. All of it."
Her lips parted, and for a long moment she just looked at him, and he watched the war behind her eyes—the instinct to push him away, to protect herself, wrestling with something that looked like hope.
"You mean that," she said. Not a question.
"I mean that."
She kissed him.
She kissed him like she’d been waiting for permission her whole life, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders, pulling him closer. The water sloshed around them, spilling over the edges of the tub, and he didn’t care. He kissed her back, his hand tangling in her wet hair, the other finding the small of her back and pressing her flush against him.
She was soft and warm and real, and he could feel her heart hammering against his chest, matching his own frantic rhythm. Her mouth opened under his, and he tasted the steam and the soap and something that was just her, the faint salt of tears he wasn’t sure either of them had noticed.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard. The candle had burned low, and the water had gone tepid, and her hair was plastered to her forehead in dark, wet strands.
"Hi," he said, his forehead resting against hers.
"Hi." She laughed, a breathless, disbelieving sound. "That was—"
"Yeah."
"I didn’t know it could feel like that." She said it softly, almost to herself. "I thought—I’d given up on anything feeling like that."
"You thought wrong."
She smiled then—a real smile, not the careful, rationed version she gave the world. It transformed her face, made her look younger, less guarded, more like the woman she might have been if the world hadn’t tried so hard to break her.
"I think," she said slowly, "I’m going to need you to wash me again."
"Already?"
"The parts you missed." She traced a line down his chest, her finger leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "Unless you don’t want to."
"Isolde."
"Mm?"
He kissed her again, slower this time, letting himself drown in the warmth of her. The water had gone properly cold now, but neither of them moved. There was nowhere else they needed to be, and the world outside the bathroom had become a distant rumor, easy to ignore.
"I want to," he said, his mouth against her ear, his voice a low rumble that made her shiver. "I want to. But I also want to take you to bed."
"Same bed I sleep in every night?"
"The one with the rails."
She laughed, and he felt it all through him, a tremor that started in her chest and echoed in his. "You’re going to keep reminding me about the rails, aren’t you?"
"For as long as you need them."
She pulled back to look at him, and something in her expression shifted. Not sad, exactly. Something more complicated—a recognition, maybe, that he saw all of her, not just the parts she wanted him to see.
"Get me out of this tub," she said, "and we’ll see about that bed."
He didn’t need to be told twice. He lifted her out, water streaming off both of them, the towel waiting where he’d left it. He wrapped her in it, and then wrapped himself around her, and carried her through the dark house to the bedroom with the rails, his heart beating a steady rhythm against hers.
***
The bedroom was dark save for the single lamp she’d left burning on the nightstand, the flame low and steady, casting long shadows across the walls.
The rails were still there—iron fixtures bolted to the bed frame, but in the amber light they looked less like medical equipment and more like something architectural.
Emeric carried her through the doorway and stood at the foot of the bed, water still dripping from his hair, the towel wrapped around her slipping at one shoulder. He was aware, suddenly, of how bare he was—how bare they both were—and how little it mattered compared to the weight of her in his arms.
"You’re staring at the bed," she said. Her voice was quiet, amused, a little breathless.
"I’m thinking about the logistics."
"That’s very practical of you."
"I’m a practical man." He shifted her weight, adjusting his grip. "I want to do this right. I don’t want to hurt you."
She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her touch featherlight. "You won’t hurt me. I trust you."
The words landed somewhere deep in his chest, warm and unexpected. She trusted him. After eleven days, after a lifetime of being disappointed by everyone who was supposed to care for her, she had chosen to trust him.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
He lowered her to the bed slowly, carefully, his hands supporting her back, her hips, the way he’d learned to do over the past week. The mattress dipped under her weight, and she settled against the pillows, her dark hair fanning out around her, the towel pooling beneath her. She was bare beneath it, and the lamplight painted her skin gold.