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Not entirely.

From comfort and grounding.

From him touching me like I’m still here. Still whole. Still something he can hold onto after a night that tried really hard to take everything from us.

His forehead rests against mine for a second, his breathing rough from pain and exhaustion while his good hand keeps moving with almost painful gentleness.

Careful and slow. Like he’s trying to guide me back into my body one touch at a time.

My eyes flutter shut.

The steam wraps around us thick and warm, the shower beating steadily against tile, the city muted beyond the bathroom walls. For a few seconds, there’s only his mouth against mine, his hand on me, the solid heat of him beneath my palms.

I let my forehead fall against his shoulder.

Let myself breathe there.

Let myself stop fighting the shaking.

His fingers trace down my stomach, over the curve of my hip, then dip between my thighs. I inhale sharply, but it’s not a gasp of surprise. It’s the feeling of being caught, held, seen. His palm cups me, the heel of his hand pressing against my pussy, his fingers sliding through the slickness that’s gathered there. Not from arousal, not entirely. From the heat of the water, the closeness, the way his body shields mine.

He doesn’t push. He just rests there, his palm warming my cunt, his fingers barely parting my folds.

“Is this okay?” His voice is low, cracked, almost lost under the spray.

I nod against his shoulder. “Yeah.”

His thumb begins to move, slow circles over my clit, barely there, more a promise than a demand. My hips shift, pressing into his hand, and I feel him exhale against my hair.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “Just let me hold you. Let me feel you.”

I don’t answer. I just let my weight fall into him, let his arm wrap around my waist to keep me upright as his fingers work me with excruciating slowness. He doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t push for more. Every circle of his thumb is deliberate, grounding, like he’s mapping me back into existence one nerve ending at a time.

His middle finger dips lower, pressing at my entrance, and I feel the slick heat of my own body welcoming him. He pushes in just the tip, then stops, waiting.

“More?” he asks.

“More,” I breathe.

He slides deeper, one finger, then two, filling me slowly, the stretch familiar and foreign all at once. His palm rocks against my clit with every gentle thrust, and I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his wet skin.

“Fuck,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

He curls his fingers inside me, finding that spot that makes my knees buckle, and presses there with steady, unhurried pressure. I’m shaking against him, the pleasure building in slow, rolling waves, but I can feel the edge of something sharper—an orgasm waiting to crest. And I want it. My body wants it.

But he doesn’t give it to me, instead, he suddenly stills.

The shift is immediate.

Sharp and wrong.

His entire body goes rigid beneath my hands.

At first, I think I hurt him.

“Dagger?”