The bathroom is warm and foggy, lit only by the soft glow of a candle on the counter. You’re already in the tub, knees drawn up, watching the steam curl in lazy swirls. Charlie steps in shyly, a towel slung over his shoulder.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, eyes flicking to yours.

You nod, smiling gently. “C’mon. Water’s perfect.”

He climbs in carefully, settling behind you. His arms wrap around your waist under the water like it’s instinct. Like this has always been his place.

You lean back against his chest, the quiet drip of water echoing in the room. His fingers trail up and down your arms, slow and absentminded, grounding you both.

“This feels unreal,” he murmurs.

You glance over your shoulder. “Because you’ve never taken a bath before?”

He huffs a soft laugh. “No. Because I’ve never had this. You. Like this.”

You twist in his arms just enough to meet his eyes. “You have me, Charlie. You really do.”

And when he kisses your shoulder, barely a brush of lips, it’s not about heat. It’s about trust. Safety. The kind of closeness he never thought he deserved, but clings to anyway—like you might disappear with the steam.