Wrapped in His Towel

Maeve's POV

Hot water cascaded over my shoulders, pounding against the tiles in a rhythmic roar that barely drowned out the noise inside my head. The small bathroom was thick with white mist, the air heavy with the sweet vanilla scent of my body wash. For the past fifteen minutes, I had stood beneath the stream, lost in an embarrassing spiral of daydreams about the upcoming family reunion in Texas.

My imagination was running wild. I kept picturing scenarios where we got stranded in some remote cabin, or had one drink too many at an open bar, or found ourselves pushed together by pushy relatives until the boundary between fake and real completely vanished. It was ridiculous. I was acting like a teenager reading trashy paperbacks under her bedsheets, yet my stomach flipped every time I thought about spending seventy-two uninterrupted hours by his side.

A loud thud rattled the bathroom door, shaking the frosted glass panel.

Lucas spoke from the hallway, his voice a low, gravelly rumble through the wood. "Mae, seriously, what the fuck is taking you so long? Are you trying to wash away your sins under the shower?"

I rolled my eyes at the foggy outline of the door, though heat rushed into my cheeks. Technically, I was scrubbing every single patch of skin until it was spotless. Just in case something insane happened. Just in case his hands ended up somewhere they had never been before.

I shook my head to clear the haze and turned my face toward the spray. "What has become of me?"

The heavy thud struck the door again, firmer this time.

Lucas called out, his tone dropping into that dark, flat command that always made the tiny hairs on my neck stand up. "Mae, if you don't come out in the next thirty seconds, I swear I will kick this door off the frame and drag you out myself."

We still had an hour and a half before we needed to load the trunk and head out. I had no idea why he was acting like the world was ending, but picking a fight while naked was a terrible strategy.

I grabbed my cleansing cloth, thoroughly wiping between my pussy with the dedicated towel I always kept on the lower shelf, rinsing away the soap until my skin felt clean and smooth. I stepped under the cascade one final time to rinse my hair, then twisted the chrome faucet to shut off the water. The sudden silence in the room was deafening.

I padded across the damp bath mat over to the tall mirror. The glass was coated in condensation, but I swiped a forearm across the middle to inspect myself. I ran both palms along the curves of my calves and thighs to check for missed stubble, then checked my underarms. Everything was bare, soft, and ready.

His voice cut through the silence like an ax through firewood. "Eighteen. Seventeen. Sixteen. Fifteen."

Panic flared straight down to my toes. I whipped around the bathroom, looking for my dry towel. The chrome rack near the glass door was bare.

I had forgotten to grab one from the hall closet.

I yanked open the under-sink vanity cabinet, but the shelves inside were cleared out. The spare towels were sitting in a laundry basket by the washing machine, exactly where I had left them yesterday afternoon.

"Ten. Nine. Eight."

I had no clothes in here. No robe. Nothing except the laundry hamper.

"Seven. Six."

My gaze darted to the single hook behind the bathroom door. Hanging there was Lucas’s oversized white bath sheet. It was plush, heavy, and carried the rich aroma of his sandalwood soap, clean laundry detergent, and that raw, amber musk that was unmistakably his. I had no other choice.

"Five. Four. Three."

I ripped the towel off the hook and wrapped it snugly around my body, tucking the edge tightly over my breasts just as his countdown hit zero. The metal doorknob rattled with violent force.

I turned the lock with a slick thumb and cracked the door open an inch.

Lucas did not wait. He shoved the door inward with his palm, stepping into the foggy threshold like an impatient bouncer checking IDs at a club entrance. He had his broad arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid and commanding.

He was already dressed for the road. He wore a fitted black crewneck T-shirt that clung to the wide line of his shoulders and the hard ridges of his chest. His beige trousers were tailored, falling clean over polished dark shoes. His dark hair was pushed back from his forehead, slightly tousled, and the silver stud in his left earlobe caught the bathroom light. Resting against his collarbone was the familiar silver cross pendant he wore every day.

The sight of him made the air stall in my lungs. He looked effortlessly sharp, the kind of handsome that commanded every room he walked into without speaking a word.

His eyes dragged downward, unhurried and heavy. They raked over my wet shoulders, paused at the exposed skin above my collarbone, and settled firmly on the front of the towel where the fabric strained against my breasts. The intensity of that silent appraisal made my skin prickle with heat.

I lifted my chin, forcing a dry smirk to hide how fast my heart was thumping. "My eyes are up here, Lukey. Why were you counting down like we were in military boot camp? We still have an hour and a half before we need to leave."

He did not smile. His expression remained hard, his dark eyes fixed on my face without a single blink.

He finally spoke, his voice quiet, steady, and dangerously low. "Why are you using my towel, Mae?"

I tightened my fingers on the folded terry cloth, shifting my weight from one bare foot to the other. "I forgot mine in the bedroom, and the spares are still sitting in the laundry room. If I had opened the door to ask you for one, you would have spent ten minutes chewing me out for wasting time."

Lucas said nothing. He kept his ground in the center of the doorway, his eyes traveling down my bare legs and damp feet before returning to my face. His features were an unreadable mask. I could never tell what he was thinking when he looked at me like that, whether he was annoyed by my presence or disgusted by the mess I made.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and moved forward, attempting to squeeze past his broad frame into the bedroom hallway. Our shoulders brushed, his warm cotton sleeve grazing the damp skin of my bare arm.

He did not turn around, but his words cut through the room, sharp and clinical. "Make sure you wash it when you are done."

I froze in the middle of the hallway. The simple sentence felt like ice water dumped down my spine.

I turned my head to look back at him. Lucas had his back half-turned, his eyes cool and indifferent as he picked up his car keys from the dresser. There was no teasing grin on his lips, no playful jab in his eyes. Just flat, sterile detachment.

A heavy ache settled right behind my ribs. Did he think I was filthy? Did sharing something as basic as a towel with me repulse him that much? For four years, we had lived under the same roof, eaten off the same plates, shared the same kitchen, yet sometimes he looked at me like I was a stray dog he tolerated out of pity.

I turned back around before he could see my expression crack. I hurried into the walk-in closet, pulling the heavy wooden door shut until the latch clicked into place.

Inside the small, carpeted space, surrounded by rows of hanging jackets and shoe racks, I let out a shaky breath. A hot tear slipped over my lashes, tracing a wet line down my cheek. I hated how easy it was for him to wound me. A few cold words, a blank stare, and my chest felt like it was tearing open.

I wondered if love was always supposed to feel like this, like an exposed nerve rubbing against rough stone. I had never seen what real love looked like growing up. My father had been an empty chair at the dinner table, and my stepmother only spoke to me when there was a chore I had neglected to finish. Neglect was the only language I understood fluently. Maybe this quiet cruelty from Lucas was just the price of having a roof over my head.

I wiped the moisture from my cheek with the back of my hand and drew in a long, steadying breath. I had survived his mood swings for four years. I could handle the eight months of this fake relationship.

I moved efficiently. I dropped his towel onto the wicker hamper, rubbed my favorite cocoa butter lotion across my legs and arms, and reached for the hanger holding the new outfit.

It was a sleeveless, chocolate-brown midi dress made of ribbed knit fabric. I had bought it with my own tip money off a discount clearance rack, refusing to touch the credit card he had left on the kitchen counter. Taking his money for food and rent was humiliating enough; buying clothes with his card crossed a line I refused to step over.

I stepped into the dress and pulled it up over my hips. The fabric was thicker than cheap cotton, but it fit like a glove, clinging tightly to the slope of my waist, the wide curve of my hips, and the heavy swell of my thighs. Because of the stretch, the hemline hitched up higher than I had intended, resting well above my knees.

I stared at myself in the full-length mirror mounted on the closet wall. I felt horribly exposed. I had spent years hiding beneath oversized hoodies, baggy cargo pants, and dark flannel shirts to disguise how heavy my lower body was. Standing there in this fitted dress, every curve, every dip, and every inch of my thighs was out in the open.

Lucas was going to tear me to pieces. He never missed a chance to point out my flaws, and this dress looked like an open invitation for his sharp tongue.

I opened the closet door and stepped back out into the bedroom.

Lucas was lounging across the corner of his mattress near the window, one ankle crossed over his opposite knee. He had his phone resting in his palms, the warm late-afternoon sunlight spilling across his dark hair and casting sharp shadows along his cheekbones.

The soft click of my bare feet on the hardwood made him lift his head.

His eyes locked onto me, and the phone in his hands lowered slightly. His amber gaze traveled up from my bare ankles, over the tight fabric stretched across my thighs, past my hips, and up to the square neckline before finally meeting my eyes. He sat frozen, silent, his pupils wide under the golden light.

The silence dragged on for five long seconds. The scrutiny made my heart race with sheer panic.

I crossed my arms over my stomach, grabbing the sides of the knit fabric in a desperate bid to hide my hips. "I know. It was the only thing on sale that looked remotely decent for your family. I can go back inside and put on my dark jeans and a jacket. Just give me two minutes."

I turned on my heel to retreat into the closet, but his long legs swung off the mattress in a single motion.

His hand clamped around my right wrist. He did not wrench me, but his grip was unyielding, pulling me backward until my spine met the hard, solid expanse of his chest.

A gasp caught in my throat as his other arm came around, steadying my hip. His body radiated heat, cutting through the thin knit of my dress. The faint scent of sandalwood and clean skin wrapped around me, drowning out every thought in my head.

He reached up with his free hand, his long fingers gently brushing a damp curl away from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. His touch was warm, surprisingly soft, his knuckles lingering against the curve of my jawline.

He leaned down, his mouth inches from my ear, his voice rough and low. "It is beautiful. You look gorgeous in it."

The words hung in the quiet bedroom, heavy and real.

My breath stopped entirely. My mind scrambled, searching for the punchline, waiting for the trademark smirk, the mocking laugh, or the sarcastic bite that usually followed his compliments. But there was nothing. His dark eyes remained fixed on mine, steady and stripped of any defense. He meant it.

I parted my lips, but only a dry whisper came out. "What?"

Lucas released my wrist, his fingers trailing down my forearm before he took me by the elbow. He led my numb, trembling legs over to the vanity table in the corner of the room.

He pressed a firm hand onto my shoulder. "Sit down."

I sank onto the round cushioned stool without resistance. My knees felt like water, my entire body buzzing from the heat of his palm against my skin.

Lucas did not look at me. He stepped around the table, pulled open the deep bottom drawer of the wooden dresser, and lifted out a heavy, matte-black case with silver latches. He set it on the polished glass top of the vanity with a solid clatter.

With a quick flick of his thumb, he popped the latches open.

Inside the velvet compartments lay rows of neatly arranged cosmetics. Palettes from Dior and MAC, glass bottles of primer, slender gold tubes of lipstick, and sets of fine-bristled brushes that looked completely untouched. It was high-end makeup, worth hundreds of dollars, the kind of luxury products I had only ever looked at through glass display cases at the mall.

I stared at the case, completely stunned. "Lucas, what is this? When did you ever get into makeup?"

A faint smirk touched the corner of his mouth as he picked up a sleek, wooden lip pencil. "Right around the time I got stuck with a roommate who could not even line her own lips without looking like a toddler with a crayon."

The playful insult landed gently, making my chest tighten with a strange, sweet ache.

A memory clicked into place. Three months ago, before the annual dinner hosted by my diner manager, I had spent forty-five minutes in front of the bathroom mirror trying to follow an online lip tutorial. I had smudged the liner three times, rubbed my skin raw with wet tissues, and finally gave up, settling for clear strawberry gloss and crying out of frustration. Lucas had been sitting at the kitchen table that night with his laptop open and his large headphones over his ears. I had assumed he had not noticed a single thing.

I stared up at him, my brow furrowing. "You were watching me that night?"

Lucas adjusted his grip on the pencil, rolling his eyes as he stepped closer between my parted knees. "We have lived together for four years, Mae. I know every single thing you do in this apartment. Now shut your mouth and hold still."

He placed his left thumb beneath my chin, his fingers splaying wide across my jawline to tilt my face upward toward the window. His skin was warm and firm, holding my head steady with effortless strength.

He bent his waist, bringing his face down until his forehead was only inches from mine. His warm breath washed over my upper lip, smelling faintly of mint and black coffee. His dark eyebrows knitted together in fierce concentration, his honey-brown eyes dropping to my mouth as the tip of the pencil touched my cupid's bow.

My chest rose and fell in shallow, jagged beats. Every nerve ending in my body flared to life. He was so close I could see the golden flecks in his irises, the slight shadow of dark stubble along his jaw, and the curve of his lower lip.

His fingers stroked the underside of my chin, his touch impossibly tender for someone whose hands were built for violence and sport. He traced the pencil along the contour of my top lip, his strokes deliberate and careful, his jaw clenching as he focused on getting the line straight.

A wild, suffocating urge clawed at the back of my throat. Every rational thought was screaming at me to reach up, wrap my arms around the broad column of his neck, and pull him down until his mouth crashed against mine. I wanted to taste him. I wanted to feel that hard chest crush against my breasts until there was no space left between us.

Looking into his fierce, unblinking eyes, I felt a wave of absolute dread wash over my heart.

Lucas was going to destroy me before this year was over. He was going to break every piece of me, and the terrifying truth was that I would stay right here and let him do it.