Julian absorbed every tremor, every fractured cry, holding her together as she fell apart. He felt the exact moment she shattered—the way her body clamped down around his fingers in a sweet, crushing rhythm that nearly undid him, the way her spine went rigid against his chest before dissolving into absolute, boneless surrender.

He didn't pull away. He kept his hand steady, letting her ride out the aftershocks, his own breath coming in heavy, satisfied pulls against the damp curve of her neck. The bathroom was stiflingly warm, thick with steam and the heavy, intoxicating scent of their intimacy, but he felt grounded. Anchored by the frantic thud of her heart hammering against his back and the desperate way she was still clinging to his thigh.

When she finally spoke, her voice a broken whisper pleading for him to keep her, a dark, possessive heat flared in his chest, brighter and hotter than the water surrounding them. It was a surrender of sovereignty, and he accepted it with a reverence that shook him.

He slowly, reluctantly withdrew his hand from the water, only to immediately wrap both arms tightly around her waist, locking her flush against him. He buried his face in the wet, tangled mess of her hair, inhaling deeply. She was limp in his hold, a beautiful wreck, and the knowledge that he was the one who had taken her there—and the only one who would be there to catch her—settled deep in his bones.

"Keep you?" he repeated, his voice rough, a low rumble that vibrated directly into her spine. "Isla, letting you go was never part of the plan. You barring the door? That was just you catching up to where I’ve already been."

He shifted his grip, turning her face slightly with his hand so he could access the soft, flushed skin he needed to touch. He felt the tension leaving her, replaced by that heavy, drowsy weight of safety she’d spoken of.

"I just wanted to show you I’m not always the monster you saw in the kitchen, baby," he murmured into her temple, his lips brushing the damp hair aside to press a lingering, devout kiss to the skin there. He moved lower, pressing another kiss to her cheek, tasting the salt and the steam. "And I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me. Until you are absolutely sick of me, and probably long after that. You are mine, officially. No take-backs."

Isla leaned her head back against his shoulder, letting her eyes drift shut as the warm water and his even warmer words settled over her. The "monster" in the kitchen had been spectacular—a jagged, thrilling revelation—but it wasn't why she was here.

She had been falling for this side of him—the steady, observant, impossibly tender side—long before tonight. She’d been falling since he appeared like a ghost on that snow-dusted ferry in Sweden, offering his scarf with a quiet kindness that had bypassed all her usual defenses. She’d been falling since that first dinner after the Opera, when he had looked at her not as a trophy or a peer, but as a person he simply wanted to know.

For a woman who had built her entire identity around her independence, the shift was staggering. She had spent years priding herself on not needing a man; it was the very thing that had acted as a slow-acting poison in her marriage to Kai. Kai had wanted to possess her, to manage her, but he had never truly known how to hold her.

But Julian? Julian was different. With him, surrender didn't feel like losing; it felt like arriving. Being "his" didn't feel like a cage; it felt like finally having a place to put her guard down.

"No take-backs," she murmured, her voice a soft, sleepy echo of his. "A dangerous promise to make to a British woman, Julian. We’re notoriously difficult to get rid of once we’ve settled in."

She shifted her grip on his thigh, her fingers relaxing but not letting go, as if she needed the physical connection to stay grounded. The sensation of his arms locked around her waist, the feeling of being completely enclosed by his strength, was a luxury she had never allowed herself to imagine with anyone else.

"I don't think I could be sick of you if I tried," she confessed, the honesty raw and unvarnished in the quiet, steamy room. "I spent so much time proving I didn't need anyone... I think I forgot how much I wanted to be found. And you found me."

She tilted her head, pressing her cheek against the damp skin of his chest, listening to the heavy, melodic thrum of his heart. It was the only rhythm that mattered now.

"The monster was fun," she added, a tiny, smitten smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "But the man who draws me a bath and tells me I’m stuck with him? He’s the one who’s actually going to be the ruin of me."

She let out a long, contented sigh, the heat of the water finally winning the battle against her remaining consciousness.

"I'm yours," she whispered, the admission landing heavy and true between them. "No take-backs. Not ever."

Julian felt the vibration of her murmured words against his chest more than he heard them. Her sleepy warning about being "difficult to get rid of" drew a low, resonant chuckle from deep in his throat, a sound that rumbled through the water surrounding them.

He turned his head, pressing a lingering kiss into her damp, fragrant hair. "Is that a threat, sweetheart? Because it sounds terribly like a dream scenario to me," he murmured into the silken strands. "Settle in, Isla. Dig your roots so deep we can never untangle them. I’m counting on it. The British empire itself couldn't move you from my side now."

When she spoke of her past, of the exhausting effort of proving she needed no one, and the relief of finally being "found," his arms instinctively tightened around her waist beneath the water. The raw honesty in her voice made his chest ache with a fierce, protective love. He moved one hand from her waist to cover hers where it rested on his thigh, squeezing gently, anchoring her.

"You never had to prove your strength to me. I saw it the moment I laid eyes on you on that freezing ferry deck," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "But you don't have to carry the world by yourself anymore. You were never lost to me, Isla; I think I was just waiting for you to be ready to be caught."

He smiled against her temple as she confessed that his tenderness—this quiet moment after the storm in the kitchen—was what would truly undo her.
"Ruin you with care and warm baths? I think I can manage that obligation for the rest of my life."

Her final whisper, I'm yours. No take-backs, settled deep in his soul, heavier and more permanent than any wedding band.
"Mine," he confirmed, a solemn oath whispered against her skin. "Forever. And I hold you to that promise."

The water was beginning to cool, and her growing dead weight against him told him the adrenaline of the evening had finally faded, leaving her completely drained. He kissed the top of her head one last time, reluctant to break the contact but knowing they needed dry land and soft sheets.

"Up you go, darling," he whispered near her ear, shifting his weight. "Time to get you out of here before you dissolve completely."

He helped her lean forward, supporting her back until she was sitting upright, her skin flushed beautifully pink from the heat. With a final caress to her cheek, he stood, water cascading off his body in noisy rivulets.

He stepped out onto the bathmat, immediately snagging a thick white towel from the heated rack. He wrapped it quickly around his hips, tucking the end securely at his waist.

He grabbed a second, larger bath sheet, shaking it out so it was fully unfurled. He turned back to the tub, holding the expanse of warm terrycloth open wide like a sanctuary.

"Come here," he urged softly, his eyes tender as he watched her drowsily rise from the water, a beautiful, sleepy Venus.

As she stepped over the porcelain rim and into the towel, he immediately folded it around her, cocooning her completely. His hands moved swiftly but gently over her back and arms, rubbing the moisture away through the thick fabric, pulling her close against his front. She was warm and pliable, and he just wanted to bury himself in her peace.

He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers for a moment, breathing in the clean scent of her skin.

"I don’t know about you, babe, but I’m exhausted," he admitted, the weariness finally hitting him now that she was safe, claimed, and cared for. He pressed a soft kiss to her damp nose. "Lemme hold you until we fall asleep."

He didn't wait for an answer; he just scooped her up into his arms, towel and all, carrying her out of the steamy bathroom and into the cool quiet of the bedroom. He deposited her gently in the center of the mattress before dropping his own towel and sliding in beside her, pulling the duvet up high and immediately gathering her back into his arms, exactly where she belonged.

Isla didn’t even try to help. As she was settled into the vast, cool expanse of her bed, she simply let her limbs go where he placed them, finally sliding into the sheets with a long, shaky sigh of relief. The cool linen against her heated skin was heaven, but the second Julian’s weight dipped the mattress beside her, she was moving—dragging herself across the pillows until she was a tangle of limbs and soft skin pressed firmly against his side.

She tucked her head into the familiar, perfect notch of his shoulder, her arm draping over his chest as if to claim every heartbeat he had left. She felt completely, dangerously at peace. The "monster" was a memory, the bath was a dream, and this—this was the reality she wanted to wake up to for the next fifty years.

She felt his arm wind around her, his hand splaying over her hip to pull her even closer, and she felt the need to touch him one more time before the darkness took her. She tilted her head back, her eyes heavy and hooded, and found his mouth in the dim light.

She kissed him slowly, a deep, lingering press of lips that tasted of salt and sleep. It was a long, silent thank you. Then, as if her heart couldn't quite contain itself, she broke the kiss only to pepper his mouth with a quick, breathless cluster of smaller, softer kisses—tiny, rhythmic affirmations of her affection.

She pulled back just an inch, a sleepy, lopsided grin tugging at her mouth.

"You’re quite something, you know," she murmured, her voice a smoky, British rasp.

Her index finger began to trace lazy, nonsensical patterns over the smooth muscle of his chest, moving over his heart and down toward his ribs. Her movements were becoming slower, more erratic, as the heavy pull of sleep began to win the battle for her consciousness.

"I think," she whispered, her eyes finally drifting shut as she rested her cheek back on his skin, "that you’re less like a man and more like a moon tide. You just... pull at everything inside me until I’m forced to follow you out to sea."

She let out a soft, huffed breath of a laugh, her finger finally coming to a rest over his sternum.

"I’m quite happy to drown, Julian. Just so long as you’re the one holding me under."

She didn't wait for a response. Within seconds, her breathing leveled out into the deep, rhythmic cadence of the truly exhausted, her body turning into a warm, heavy weight in his arms. She was out, safe in the sanctuary of the man who had found her, unraveled her, and finally, beautifully, brought her home.

The first thing Isla registered was the weight of his arm—draped low across her waist, palm warm and slack against her hip like his body had refused to let her go even in sleep.

The second was the stillness.

It wasn’t silence exactly. London was never truly quiet. But the usual pre-dawn rhythm—the beep of a reversing truck outside, the low hum of streetlamps, the occasional wind whistle against the loft window—felt miles away from the chaos she was used to.

And for once, she wasn’t already up and halfway into a caffeine-fueled costume fitting. No call sheet, no trainer waiting, no ice bath threatening her joints before sun-up.

Just…this.

She breathed in slowly, chest lifting beneath the duvet, her bare skin brushing faintly against the threadbare linen. Her eyes adjusted to the dim gray haze of the loft, still tucked in the kind of darkness that meant it was early—obnoxiously early—but not alarm-clock early. A small win. Her body was still trained for war, but apparently it had granted her a brief ceasefire.

Julian slept beside her on his stomach, his face turned slightly toward her pillow, the messy waves of his hair haloed against the rumpled sheets. The arm that wasn’t claiming her was bent beneath him, his shoulderblade peeking just above the covers—marked faintly from where she’d dragged her nails down it hours before.

Her stomach dipped at the memory, but it wasn’t hunger. It was something quieter. Warmer. Less about ache and more about awe.

She turned her head to look at him fully, careful not to disturb the way his fingers curled loosely around her hipbone, the way he still held her like she might vanish if he didn’t. Even in sleep, there was intention. A claim without force. A presence that asked nothing but still said mine.

And this time, she didn’t move to escape it.

She didn’t get up to write him a note.
She didn’t leave the bed, or the moment.
She stayed.

Instead, Isla let her fingers drift—light and idle—across the top of his forearm. Featherlight, like a whisper. Barely there, but just enough to feel the tiny, almost imperceptible shift in his breath when she did. She traced a lazy path up toward the bend of his elbow, then back down toward the coarse hair near his wrist. Reverent. Possessive in her own quiet way.

She smiled to herself when he made a faint sound—half a breath, half a sigh—but didn’t wake.

Good.
Let him sleep.
Let him rest in this moment they earned together, where everything had finally been named out loud. Where there was no performance, no teasing for control, no need to pretend they hadn’t both been undone and rebuilt last night, piece by piece, in each other’s arms.

The duvet shifted slightly as she moved her leg beneath it, toes brushing against his shin. The contact sparked another small exhale from him—deeper this time. Closer to waking.

But still, she didn’t speak.

She only watched him, her expression soft and unapologetically fond in the low light. He looked impossibly boyish like this—lips parted slightly, brow uncreased for once, a hint of stubble across his jaw catching what little light filtered through the skylight above them.

Isla reached up and ran the backs of her knuckles down the side of his face, just barely skimming his cheekbone. It was a playful sort of affection—teasing in its restraint, featherlight in its delivery. A love tap, no bruises. No fire, just warmth.

The opposite of how they’d arrived here. And maybe that’s what made it more intimate.

She glanced over at the clock tucked against the far wall. 5:38 a.m.

No director.
No assistant.
No fight to gear up for.

Just this dim, perfect calm, and the man beside her who had made it through the storm with her—and stayed.

"Julian," she murmured softly, just above a whisper. Not to wake him. Just to try the shape of it again in this morning-shaped quiet. It felt different in the daylight. More like something to keep.

Then, leaning slightly closer, she pressed the gentlest kiss to the top of his shoulder. Not his lips. Not his spine. Just that hollow curve between muscle and warmth, where the skin was still marked from where she'd held on. A kiss like a thank-you. A kiss like a vow.

When she pulled back, she laid her head against her pillow again, close enough that her breath stirred his hair.

She could wait.
Let him wake on his own time.

She was staying.

This time—she was the one still there.

The transition from sleep to wakefulness wasn't a snap; it was a slow, heavy wade through a tide of gray warmth. Usually, Julian woke with a jolt—the instinct of a man used to waking up alone, or worse, waking up to the sound of a door clicking shut.

But not today.

The first thing that anchored him wasn’t the light filtering through the skylight or the distant hum of London waking up. It was the sensation of her fingers—impossibly light, tracing the topography of his forearm. It felt like a question he didn’t need to answer, a silent mapping of territory she had claimed hours ago.

He kept his eyes closed, terrified that if he opened them, the sensation would dissolve into a phantom memory. He knew that touch. He knew the specific, calculated weight of Isla’s attention. But usually, that attention was sharp, fueled by adrenaline and the ticking clock of her schedule. This… this was lazy. Aimless.

She’s still here.

The realization hit him harder than the caffeine he usually needed to function. A profound, chest-aching relief settled into his ribs, right where her breath was ghosting against his skin.

He felt her knuckles graze his cheekbone—a soft, teasing scrape—and he had to fight the urge to turn his face instantly into her palm. He wanted to devour the contact, but he stayed still, greedy for more of this unguarded version of her. The version that wasn’t fighting a war. The version that was just a woman, lying in the wreckage of the night they’d shared, tracing the lines of the man she hadn’t run from.

Then came her voice.

It was barely a sound. Just a shape formed by breath and quiet. It vibrated through the air between them, landing in the center of his chest. It sounded like a secret. It sounded like a key turning in a lock.

He felt the dip of the mattress as she leaned in, followed by the soft, warm pressure of her lips against his shoulder. The kiss landed right on the sensitive skin near his neck, over the faint, stinging memory of where her nails had dug in last night. That dull ache flared pleasantly, a physical receipt of how desperately they had unraveled each other.

He couldn't pretend to sleep through that. He didn't want to.

Without opening his eyes, Julian shifted. The arm draped over her waist tightened—just a fraction—shifting from a dead weight to a conscious embrace. He flexed his fingers against her hipbone, grounding himself in the reality of her solid, warm form.

"Mmm," he rumbled, the sound rough with sleep, vibrating deep in his throat. He turned his face into the pillow, catching the scent of her—salt, skin, and the fading perfume that clung to the sheets.

He cracked one eye open, the lashes heavy, finding her in the dim, slate-gray light.

"Don't tell me," he rasped, his voice thick, scraping the bottom of his register. He moved his hand on her hip, thumb sweeping a slow, possessive arc over the silk of her skin. "Isla... staying put? The world must be ending."

He shifted closer, burying his face briefly in the curve of her neck before pulling back just enough to look at her, his expression sleepy but devastatingly open.

"Say it again," he whispered, lazy and low. "My name. I like the way it sounds when you aren't trying to leave."

Isla didn’t answer right away.

Not because she didn’t want to.
Because she felt it—his voice, rasped and rumbling, trailing across her skin like it had hands of its own. Because her body responded before her brain did—goosebumps feathering out from the place his thumb had just touched, heart thudding a little too hard in her chest.

God, he was dangerous like this.
Soft.
Unarmored.
Completely and shamelessly hers.

She turned her head slowly on the pillow, nose brushing his as she met his gaze in the pre-dawn gloom. He looked wrecked in the most devastating way—lids heavy, jaw slack with sleep, hair a mess of dark waves and stubborn curls flattened against one side of his face. And still somehow the most beautiful thing she’d ever woken up next to.

Still real.

Still here.

Her mouth curved without her permission. That slow, sleepy smile that only ever showed up before she remembered who she was supposed to be.

“You like the way it sounds when I’m not trying to leave,” she murmured, voice still scratchy with sleep, “because you’re not used to anyone staying.”

She wasn’t teasing.
Just…telling the truth.

Her thumb drifted along his jaw, featherlight again, like she couldn’t quite believe he was solid under her hand. Like she wanted to memorize him all over again now that the lights were off, the show was over, and no one was performing.

“I stayed,” she whispered, softer this time. “I could’ve slipped out. Written another note. Gone for a run or made coffee or anything else that didn’t involve waking you like this.”

Her palm settled against his cheek at last, fingers resting gently in the curve of his jaw.

“But I didn’t,” she added. “Because I wanted you to have this.”

She shifted just enough to press a kiss to his lips—not hungry, not teasing, not meant to start anything. Just a slow, content, we made it through the night together kind of kiss. The kind you give someone you’re not afraid to be quiet with. To be still with. To wake up beside.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his.

“You said my name like a prayer last night,” she whispered. “Like it hurt. Like it meant something.”

She let that settle between them, let it color the air.

Then, almost mischievously, she brushed her nose against his and whispered again—quiet, reverent, and just for him:

“Julian.”

She felt him breathe it in.

And this time, she was the one who stayed close. Who didn’t roll away. Who reached for him again with fingers and breath and something that felt an awful lot like love, even if she wasn’t ready to say it yet.

But she would.
She would.

Because she didn’t need a script for this part.

She was writing it herself.

Julian watched her, his eyes tracing the curve of her smile in the dim light. He felt the weight of her words settle in his chest, heavier than the blanket but infinitely warmer. She saw right through him—past the charm, past the deflection, right to the part of him that was always waiting for the door to close behind someone.

"You're too smart for your own good, you know that?" he murmured, his voice rough with sleep but laced with a quiet, stunned affection. He turned his face into her palm, pressing a kiss to the center of her hand before looking back at her, his eyes searching hers. "I'm not used to waking up to anything but a cold side of the bed. Having you here... having you stay? Yeah. I like the sound of that."

He lay still as she kissed him, savoring the slowness of it. It wasn't a performance. It was just them. When she pulled back and rested her forehead against his, he felt a shifting in the atmosphere, a deepening of the tether between them.

When she mentioned how he’d said her name—like a prayer, like it meant something—his breath hitched. He didn’t deflect. He didn’t joke.

He moved his hand, sliding it up from her waist to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing softly over her cheekbone as he really looked at her. He studied her eyes, the sleep-softened features, the reality of her. A slow, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—boyish and unguarded.

"It did," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "No take backs."

Hearing his name on her lips, whispered with that same reverence, broke him down a little more. He closed the tiny distance between them, pressing his forehead harder against hers, breathing her in like she was the only oxygen in the room.

"Isla," he breathed back, the name feeling like a promise on his tongue.

He couldn't stand even the few inches of space between them anymore. The relief of her staying, the sound of his name on her lips—it made him feel lighter than he had in years, bubbling up inside him with a giddy, restless energy.

His hands slid down from her face, wrapping securely around her waist. With a playful grunt and a shift of his hips, he tugged her upward, guiding her body up and over him until she was resting right on top of his chest. He settled beneath her weight like it was the most natural thing in the world, his arms locking around her back to keep her there.

He looked up at her, his hair fanned out messy against the pillow, and a grin broke across his face that had absolutely no defense behind it. It wasn’t his smooth, media-trained smile. It was wide, goofy, and ridiculously bright—the kind of grin a little boy wears when he realizes the girl he likes actually likes him back.

"Hi," he beamed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, shining with pure, unadulterated happiness. He gave her a little squeeze, unable to stop smiling.

"Yeah... I am definitely okay with this. More than okay."

Isla laughed softly when he pulled her up onto him—an unguarded, sleepy sound that surprised even her. She settled there easily, palms resting on his chest, feeling the steady proof of him beneath her like an anchor. His grin was impossible to ignore. Infectious. Earnest. Entirely hers.

“Hi,” she echoed, amused warmth curling through the word.

She tipped her head, studying him the way she might a skyline at dawn—quietly, appreciatively, like she was letting the shape of him settle somewhere permanent. The messy hair, the open joy, the way his arms stayed locked around her as if he’d decided she was where things belonged now.

“You look unbearable when you’re this pleased with yourself,” she told him fondly. “Just so you’re aware.”

Her fingers traced lazy, absent lines over his sternum, not teasing this time—just familiar already, like her hands had learned him overnight. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, slow and unhurried, then another to his cheek.

“And for the record,” she added quietly, nose brushing his, “this isn’t a fluke. I’m not going to vanish between sunrise and caffeine.”

She shifted just enough to rest her forehead against his, breath warm, voice softer but certain.

“I promise,” she said. “From now on—if I have to leave the bed first, you’re getting woken up. Even if it’s just for a kiss. Even if it’s quick. Even if I’m running late.”

Her mouth curved again, dry humor threading through the sincerity.

“The only exception is if you’re completely wrecked and actually need the sleep. In which case, I’ll be very noble about it. Briefly. And then still probably kiss you.”

She kissed him again to underline the point—gentle, lingering, unmistakably affectionate—before pulling back just enough to look at him properly.

“I like waking up like this,” she admitted. “With you knowing I’m here. With me knowing you are.”

Her thumb brushed beneath his eye, slow and reverent.

“And if you ever catch me trying to sneak out without saying goodbye,” she added lightly, “you’re allowed to stop me. No speeches required.”

She smiled then—soft, smitten, entirely unbothered by how obvious it was.

“Deal?”

Julian’s chest rumbled with a laugh that he didn’t bother to suppress, the sound vibrating right under her palms. He gazed up at her, entirely unrepentant, drinking in the sight of her hovering above him like she was the only sunrise that mattered.

“I am not unbearable,” he countered, his voice rough with sleep but thick with amusement. He shifted his hands to settle more firmly on her waist, holding her there as if to prove she wasn’t going anywhere. “That is a gross miscalculation. I look adorable. The pleased-with-himself look is part of the charm. You’re just intimidated by the wattage.”

He let her kiss him—slow, unhurried—and the playful smirk softened into something much more raw. When she pressed her forehead to his, the teasing vanished entirely, replaced by a quiet, fierce relief that seemed to settle in his bones. Her promise hit him harder than he expected; the idea that he didn't have to brace himself for an empty bed was a weight he hadn't realized he was carrying until she lifted it.

“You’d better,” he murmured, his eyes searching hers, dark and warm. “Wake me up, I mean. Even if I’m wrecked. I’d rather lose five minutes of sleep than wake up wondering where you went.”

He leaned up slightly to bridge the tiny gap between them, brushing his lips against hers before pulling back to look at her properly, matching her sincerity.

“I like knowing you're here, too,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, intimate and sure. “And if you try to sneak out? Oh, I’m definitely stopping you. I might even lock the door.”
He grinned then, that same infectious, open joy returning.

“Deal. Absolutely, undeniably, deal.”

He tightened his arms around her, shifting just enough to settle her more securely against him, as if the mere mention of a deal required a physical seal. He hummed, a contented vibration in his chest, and tilted his head back into the pillow, looking up at her with eyes that were crinkling at the corners.

“However,” he added, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle on her hip. “Since I am adorable, and since we have established that you aren’t running away... I think I’m entitled to renegotiate the timeline.”

He nodded vaguely toward the sunlight filtering in, then brought his gaze back to her, lazy and warm.

“Caffeine can wait. The world can wait. If I’m really this unbearable, you probably need a little more exposure therapy to build up an immunity. Strictly for medical reasons, obviously.”

He lifted one hand from her waist to tangle his fingers gently into the hair at the nape of her neck, urging her face back down toward his.

“Stay right here,” he murmured, the playfulness bleeding into a hush of pure affection. “Just for a little longer. Let me enjoy the view.”