Instead, I gingerly lower the first leg and raise the second. Some of the bubbles part as I lean my head back, reveling in the warmth. My nipples peek out from the water, but he doesn’t stop to stare. Swallowing, he adjusts his seat and continues his task of cleaning me.

“Let’s do the arm that’s bothering you.”

I shake my head. “No. It’ll hurt.”

“Come on, Lauren.” He’s so gentle. “Trust me, okay?”

Shakily, I lift it. Lathering soap on his own hands, he then touches my skin. His motions are whisper soft. All I can do is watch in amazement.

“All right. You ready to come out now? If you want to hang out here longer, that’s fine. Just call me when you’re ready.”

“No, I’m ready now. Exhausted really.” I swallow.

Pulling out another large towel from the pile, he raises it like a shield in front of his eyes.

Taking his hand again, I rise and step out of the tub, straight into the towel.

“You’re very lucky, you know.” He tightly wraps me before his eyes reach mine.

“I know.”

Following him into the bedroom, he lifts his white shirt from the bed. Handing it to me, he steps to the air-conditioning unit, pressing buttons on the keypad. The sound of blowing air stops.

“The bed looks good.” I longingly stare at it. A huge, fluffy white comforter and too many soft pillows make it look almost cloud-like.

“Can you get yourself inside?”

I nod.

“I’m just going to wash myself up then.”

After he leaves, I gingerly slip his shirt over my head, taking care not to move my arm too much. It takes a few moments, but I manage. I can already see a bruise starting to form on the top of my bicep. Climbing into the bed, it’s thankfully as soft as it looks. I curl up under the cold sheets, waiting for him. I shouldn’t wait. I should just sleep and have this night of terror be over. But I can’t. I’m scared to be without him. A chill slides through my body. I’m freezing, my wet hair chilling the back of my neck.

Slade steps back into the room in nothing but a pair of beaten-up jeans. My eyes scan him from his bare feet up to his wet hair. I’ve never liked tattoos, but his are so passionately drawn, as though every piece of ink is there for a reason. I shiver.

“I like your tattoos.”

His body language somehow hardens with my comment, and I bring the sheets higher up on my body, needing more warmth.

As he waits at the foot of the bed, we’re at an awkward standstill. His eyes look reddish and glossy.

“I’ve got a good artist,” he replies curtly.

We were so open with each other, and now, it’s as though our energy is no longer in sync. What happened? He’s thrown down an emotional curtain, and I’ve been shut out.

I’m unsure what the protocol is for a situation like this one. “A-are you coming to sleep?” My voice is hesitant as I slowly sit myself upright.