The soft hiss of running water was the first thing Jack registered when he woke, sunlight spilling in weak stripes across the rumpled sheets. The second was the faint, melodic sound of Molly’s voice drifting from the bathroom. She was singing.
The image hit him hard—her bare skin slick with water, steam curling around her as she hummed some soft tune to herself. Domestic. Intimate. His wolf gave a low, pleased rumble in his chest. Ours.
He lay there for a moment, letting the sound wrap around him, wondering how the hell something so small could make him feel so much. Then he swung his legs out of bed silently, padding toward the sound. The cracked bathroom door let out a curl of warm steam, carrying her scent—soap, skin, and Molly. He pushed it open, careful and slow, and the glass showe
