His hand held my waist, fingers splayed against the damp skin of my hip, a possessive anchor in the warm, perfumed water.
"Are you scared of me?" The question slipped from his lips, quiet in the steam, but it landed like a stone in the stillness. "Are you scared of this?"
My mind screamed the right answer.
No. Laugh. Kiss him. Distract him. Drown this dangerous vulnerability in the physical language you both know so well.
Instead, the truth clawed its way out.
"Yes."
"Kind of. I don't know why." I couldn't look at him. My eyes were fixed on a single crimson petal drifting past my collarbone. "I'm scared I might lose you one day."
Fuck. Why was I saying this?
But the dam had broken. The words, trapped for a lifetime in the dark, came in a choked, painful rush.
