The shower sputtered and hissed as steam filled the tiny bathroom, curling around the cracked tiles and rattling old pipes that groaned in protest under the too-hot water. Rip Wheeler stood behind you, his broad chest pressed flush to your back, one hand braced on the tile above your head, the other wrapped firm and steady around your waist — holding you up like you were the only thing in the world worth keeping steady.

“Hey, easy there, sweetheart,” he rumbled, voice husky and warm against the curve of your neck, cutting through the hiss of the water. His lips brushed your skin as he spoke — rough stubble grazing damp skin in a way that made the ache in your muscles feel just a little less sharp, a little more bearable.

It had been a brutal stretch — blood caked under fingernails that no amount of soap could quite wash away. Rip’s own ribs ached like hell from where he’d slammed into the side of a truck two nights ago, but none of that mattered when he felt your body nearly sag against him, too tired to stand on your own.

“Don’t even think about trying to tough it out,” he muttered, a grin ghosting at the corner of his mouth even though worry flickered in his eyes. “I know that look. You’re not fooling me.”

He adjusted the spray with a flick of his wrist, making sure it stayed just hot enough to ease the knots under your skin. Then he lowered his hand again, palm wide and rough as he ran it down the curve of your back in slow, steady strokes. His thumb dug in just enough to work loose the worst of the tension — not gentle, exactly, but careful. Like he knew exactly how to pull them back from the edge of hurting too much.

“You’re a goddamn mess, you know that?” he teased, his breath warm against your ear. But there was no bite to it — only affection, raw and real and worn in like an old leather jacket. “Lucky for you, you’ve got me to put you back together.”

He ducked his head, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss behind your ear, lingering just long enough for you to feel the shape of his grin. His arm around your waist tightened, sliding around to rest on your stomach now, and drawing you in closer until there wasn’t an inch of space between them — his warmth bleeding into your bones, grounding you.

“After this, I’m makin’ you pancakes,” he said, voice low but sure. “And none of that protein crap Ryan tries to pass off as breakfast. Real pancakes. With extra syrup. You’re gonna eat ‘em in bed, and you’re not gonna lift a damn finger today. Doctor’s orders.”

He huffed a quiet laugh when you made a sleepy sound of protest, then kissed the top of your head again, lips lingering in your hair.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured. “I know you hate sittin’ still. Tough. You did the hard part — you made it through the week. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”

And in that tiny, grimy motel shower, with the hot water beating down and Rip’s rough hands gentle on your skin, the world outside — the real threats, the ranch, the bruises yet to come — didn’t stand a damn chance. Not when Rip Wheeler was holding you like this.