Steam still clings to the air, curling around the soft amber light that spills across the room. The scent of soap and his cologne lingers — sharp and warm — wrapping around you like an invisible tether. Your legs feel unsteady as you step out of the bathroom, wrapped in one of Jeremy’s towels that nearly swallows you whole.

Before you can take another step, his arm slides behind your knees. The world tilts, and you let out a quiet gasp as he lifts you effortlessly, pressing you against his chest.

“Jeremy, I can walk,” you murmur, though you don’t push away.

His gray eyes flick down to you — cool, steady, and unyielding. “I know,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates against your cheek. “But I don’t want you to.”

The warmth of his body seeps through the thin fabric as he carries you through the dim hall. His hair is still damp, the ends dripping against his neck, and you can feel the tension in every controlled movement — that quiet, caged energy he never fully hides.

When he lays you down on the bed, it’s with a gentleness that doesn’t quite match his reputation. The sheets are crisp and cool, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his skin. He takes a moment — drying his own hands, dragging a towel through his hair — before joining you.

Jeremy slides in beside you, his arm finding its place around your waist like it belongs there. He pulls you in until your back presses against his chest, his breath brushing the curve of your shoulder.

“Better?” he asks, his voice roughened from the steam and the quiet.

You hum softly, curling your fingers around his forearm. “You didn’t have to carry me.”

“I wanted to.” His lips brush your shoulder, a fleeting, unguarded touch. “You’re always running around. Sometimes I like reminding you you can rest.”

You smile faintly, turning in his hold until you face him. His gaze meets yours — that familiar storm, all steel and restraint, but softer now. He reaches up, tracing the side of your face with a thumb, and for a long moment he just looks at you, studying every detail like he’s trying to memorize it.

Then, almost under his breath, he says, “I’ve never craved attention until I tasted yours.”

The words land heavy and fragile all at once. You feel the sincerity in them, the kind of truth that doesn’t come easily for him.

You brush your fingers along his jaw, your voice barely above a whisper. “Then you’ll have it. Always.”

Jeremy exhales, a quiet sound — relief, surrender, something between the two. He pulls you closer until your head rests beneath his chin, his arm tightening around you. The rise and fall of his chest becomes a steady rhythm, anchoring you to him.

Outside, the snow falls in a muted hush against the windows, but here, wrapped in his warmth, everything is still. For once, the world feels small — just his breath against your hair, his heartbeat against your palm, and the rare, fleeting peace that only exists when Jeremy Volkov lets his guard down.