GRACE POV
Connor’s hands were in my hair.
Washing it. Untangling it. Slowly, thoroughly, like he was doing something holy.
I should’ve felt awkward. Mortified. Pissed, even.
But instead, I was melting.
My curls were a battlefield after the day I’d had, and yet he treated each knot like a secret to unravel—his fingers stroking my scalp in slow, hypnotic motions. Heat from the tub swirled around me, but it had nothing on the warmth pouring from his touch.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble.
He moved with intent.
With care.
Like I mattered.
Like I was his.
His touch slipped lower, ghosting along the nape of my neck, drifting to my shoulders. It should’ve set off every alarm I had—but all it did was make me lean back against the tub, against him, chasing more of that impossible tendernes
