He's allowed to echo her hiss of pain as she sinks deep into a warm bath and his hand, scarlet-palmed, slides under to cup her breast.
He's allowed to say 'thank you', although she wishes he wouldn't, because it's for both of them, always.
He'd fucking better murmur 'beautiful' in reverent tones as his fingers drift and light gently on the strokes he's painted across her ass.
And, yeah, 'I love you' never gets old.
But it's years before she trusts him to never, ever, no matter how much she's sobbed and begged and screamed out her word, say 'sorry'.
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