The lamp cast a soft golden glow across Caleb’s room, turning the tension between us into something almost sacred. I stayed straddling his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, forehead pressed to his. His hands rested on my lower back—warm, steady, reverent. Neither of us moved to deepen the contact. We simply breathed each other in, letting the weight of the day settle between us like fallen snow.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered, one hand sliding slowly up my spine beneath my tank top. His fingers traced the line of my vertebrae with heartbreaking gentleness, avoiding every bruise. “Still hurting?”
“A little.” I didn’t lie. Not tonight. “But it’s not just the hits.”
Caleb exhaled shakily. He leaned back against the headboard, pulling me with him until I was fully draped across his chest.
