“Mare?” I said. My dick was begging me to strip down and step into the shower behind her, but I knew she wouldn’t be in the mood. “I didn’t mean it. What I said earlier just came out. You’re not a tyrant. You’re stubborn, outspoken, and strong-willed, and I am in love with all those things. They’re part of what makes you, you.”

“It’s different.” Her voice barely carried through the curtain and over the sound of the whine of the water running through the pipes.

“What’s different?” I asked, immediately pondering if it was the sex. Then I cursed the sixteen-year-old voice in my head that had spouted such infantile stupidity.

“You’re different. We’re different.”

I sighed, letting my head fall forward. This was getting worse, not better. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It feels that way.”

“How can I fix it?”

America peered at me from behind the curtain, only one beautiful emerald eye peeking out at me. Water raced down her forehead and nose, dripping off the end. “We moved in together.”

I swallowed. “You’re unhappy?”

She shook her head, but that only partially alleviated my anxiety. “You are.”

“Mare,” I breathed out. “No, I’m not. Nothing about being with you could ever make me unhappy.”

Her eye instantly glossed over, and she closed it, pushing salty tears mixed with the tap water down her face. “I can see it. I can tell. I just don’t know why.”

I pulled the curtain to the side, and she stepped back as far as she could, watching me step one foot inside and then the other, even though I was still fully dressed.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I wrapped my arms around her, feeling the water pour over the top of my head, soaking my shirt.

“Wherever you are, I’m there with you. I don’t want to be anywhere you’re not.”

I kissed her, and she whimpered in my arms. It wasn’t like her to show her softer side. Normally, if she were hurt or sad, she would get angry.

“I don’t know why it’s been different, but I love you the same. Actually, more.”

“Then why …” She trailed off, losing her nerve.

“Why what?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry about the dishes.”

“Baby,” I said, putting my finger beneath her chin and lifting gently until she looked up at me. “Fuck the dishes.”

America lifted my shirt, up and over my head, letting it fall to the floor with a slap. Then, she unbuckled my belt while her tongue flicked along my neck. She was already naked, so there was nothing for me to do but let her undress me. That was strangely arousing.

As soon as my zipper was down, America knelt in front of me, taking my jeans with her. I kicked off my tennis shoes, and she tossed them outside the tub before doing the same with my jeans. She reached up, curving her fingers until they were snuggly between my skin and the waistband of my boxers, and she slid them down, carefully pulling them over my erection. Once they slapped against the tile outside the curtain, America pulled my entire length into her mouth, and I had to steady myself, palms flat against the wall.