Ryder turned off the water with one hand, the other never leaving my waist. He wrapped a towel around me with the kind of care that made my throat tighten, then lifted me again—my body limp in his arms, skin warm and slick from the shower.

Not because I was weak.

But because I wanted him to carry me.

I wanted to be held.

And he did.

He held me like I was something fragile. Like the fire he'd stoked in me hadn’t just burned through the room minutes ago. Like I was still soft under the ...