“Right this way, your majesty,” Henry says, and I laugh when I find him bowing, gesturing to the awaiting tub.

“Thank you, kind sir.” I walk into the steam-filled room, the floor heater in full effect.

“Need help with your dress? I seem to remember you being accident-prone when it comes to clothing and zippers.”

“Yes, please. The last thing I need is to get stuck and drown in this massive jacuzzi.”

His hand moves down my back, unzipping the garment. Upon completion, his lips press a kiss to my bare shoulder blades. “Please don’t. I’d miss you a whole fucking lot. Take your time, okay? I’ll be out here when you’re finished.”

Henry closes the door behind him, sealing me inside. Disrobing and kicking my dress and underwear to the side, I sink into the warm water and groan.

It’s heavenly. My muscles relax and my head drops back. I had no idea I was so stressed out, but the longer I sit in the tub, the better I feel. My breathing evens out. My ears stop ringing. My vision becomes clearer. It’s silent and quiet and so blissfully zen. This porcelain has healing powers, and, as much as I’d like to spend the remainder of my days in this sauna-like state, there’s a great man beyond the door waiting for me.

Draining the bath after twenty minutes, I grab one of the fluffy towels and wrap it around my body, securing it under my arm. I crack the bathroom door open, spotting Henry. He’s sitting on the bed, typing away on his phone. He doesn’t hear me slip back inside and lean against the door, watching him. Taking him in. Marveling at his splendor.

His messy hair. The small grin on his lips. The wrinkles in his shirt and the way the tendons of his forearms flex with every keyboard stroke. The tap of his foot on the floor, a beat of four quick taps, a brief pause, followed by four more.

Have I missed all these parts of him when I passed him in the halls at work, content to roll my eyes in his direction instead of appreciating the small bits of him others might not know? Like how he struggles to tie his tie, biting his tongue in exasperation while he loops the fabric through the knot. The fact that he enjoys sleeping on the right side of the bed and keeps one leg outside the covers to regulate his body temperature, a phenomenon he tells me works. How he hugs me close during the night like I’m permanently his.

Forever.

“You’re pretty when you smile,” he says.

“You’re hot when you wear a suit.”

“I wear suits every day. Does that mean you think I’m always hot, Zebra Cakes?”

I shrug nonchalantly, biting back a grin at the nickname. “Maybe.”