Lately, you’d started noticing the bruises. Fading ones along his ribs, fresh ones blooming across his knuckles—little signs that Steve had been taking more hits than usual. He never talked about it, never let it slow him down, but you saw the tension in his shoulders, the exhaustion that lingered in his every move.

Most nights, you didn’t get the chance to do much for him. He always came home late, long after you’d already drifted off to sleep. But tonight, you’d made sure to stay up, determined to take care of him the way he always took care of everyone else.

The house was warm with the scent of home-cooked food, candles casting a soft glow around the dimly lit room. A hot bath had loosened some of the tightness in his muscles, and now, you were straddling his back, working the tension from his body with slow, steady strokes of your hands.

Grant groaned beneath your touch, his face buried in the pillows, his body finally allowing itself to relax under your care. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, the steady rise and fall of his breath growing deeper with each pass of your palms.

“Christ,” he muttered, voice rough with contentment. “M’so damn lucky to have you, gorgeous.”