The water had gone quiet, but the warmth lingered—clinging to your skin, soft in the air, humming beneath the surface of your exhaustion. You sat on the small bench in the shower, head tipped slightly forward. Steam curled through the bathroom like a blanket, but it was his presence that made you feel safe.

Zade knelt in front of you, sleeves soaked and clinging to his forearms, the front of his shirt damp from the spray. He hadn't cared. Not when you looked up at him earlier with that distant haze in your eyes, like your body had returned but your mind hadn’t quite followed.

He’d seen that look before. He never rushed you through it.

His voice came gently, steady and low.

“Still with me, baby?”

You blinked slowly, eyes meeting his. Your nod was faint, but it was enough.

Zade exhaled quietly, relief softening his jaw. He reached for the towel again, patting down your arms with careful, rhythmic motions. Nothing rough. Nothing rushed. Just him, grounding you piece by piece.

“You did so good,” he said, voice close to reverence. “You hear me? You were perfect. Took everything I gave you, and then some.”

You looked away, overwhelmed, but his hand came to your chin—light, patient—turning you gently back to face him.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Don’t hide from me. Not now. You were safe then, and you’re safe now. I need you to feel that.”

The praise didn’t come with heat, not like it sometimes did. Tonight it came with softness. With awe. Like he couldn’t believe the strength you held inside you—even when you felt emptied out.

Zade brushed his thumb over your cheekbone, wiping away a bead of moisture that wasn’t from the shower.

“You good?” he asked again. “Anywhere hurting? Too much pressure anywhere?”

You shook your head, and he nodded, but didn’t move away.

“You get overwhelmed, you tell me, okay? Doesn’t matter when. Doesn’t matter how. You don’t carry that shit alone.”

He stood, offering you his hand—not forcing, just waiting. When you placed yours in his, he wrapped his fingers around it like something precious and helped you to your feet, holding your balance as if your weight steadied him more than the other way around.

He dried you slowly, saying nothing more unless you looked unsure—and then he was there with soft reassurances, folded clothes, and his hoodie slipped over your head like second skin.

Once you were warm and clothed, he led you to the bed, pulling back the covers before helping you in, then settling behind you. His chest pressed against your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm draped protectively over your waist.

“You’re my favorite thing,” he whispered, lips brushing the back of your neck. “The way you let me have you like that, and then trust me enough to take care of you after? That’s everything.”

His hand found yours beneath the blankets, lacing your fingers together.

“I know I push,” he said softly, “but I’ll always make sure you’re okay. Every time. Always.”

You sighed, letting yourself breathe into him, your body finally giving in to the comfort. Zade pulled you closer, and for a while, he just held you in the silence, brushing lazy circles on your wrist with his thumb.

Not because he needed to touch you.

But because he needed you to feel it—

You were safe. You were seen. You were his.