The rain tapped gently against the windows, the rhythm soft and hypnotic. June stood by the nursery door, watching her daughter's chest rise and fall. Clara was deep in sleep, swaddled tight in her bassinet, a tiny fist curled beside her cheek.
Satisfied, June tiptoed out, closing the door until it clicked silently shut.
She padded barefoot down the hallway, the low lighting in the house casting golden shadows on the wooden floor. She reached their bedroom, where the door was cracked open just enough to let the steam drift out from the adjoining bathroom.
The sound of running water reached her ears.
"Hank?" she called softly.
His voice came from inside, warm and low. "In here."
June pushed the door open and stepped inside the bathroom. The mirror was fogged, and the scent of eucalyptus filled the air. The shower glass was partially opaque from the steam, but through it she could see Hank—his back to her, muscles defined and slick under the falling water.
She leaned on the doorframe for a second and just watched him. After weeks of sleepless nights, feeds, burping, diapers, and adjusting to motherhood, she was suddenly reminded: this was her husband. Not just Clara's father, not just her teammate in chaos, but the man she loved.
And missed.
Hank turned slightly, catching her eyes through the steam. His smile was slow and inviting.
"Come join me," he said simply.
June hesitated. "We might not get this chance again for a while."
"All the more reason," he murmured, stepping aside to make space. "She's out. And you, June ,need to be reminded that you're still the woman who sets me on fire with just a look."
The heat in his voice made something stir deep inside her. She peeled her sleep shirt over her head and let it fall to the floor, followed by the soft stretch of cotton shorts. The steam kissed her skin as she stepped into the shower, and then—his hands were on her. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just deliberate. Worshipful.
He kissed her forehead first, then her temple, his thumbs stroking the small of her back. She melted into him, her forehead resting on his chest.
"I missed this," she whispered.
"I missed you," he replied, brushing her wet hair back. "Not just your touch. Your laughter. Your sighs. The way you hum when you brush your teeth. I missed everything."
Water flowed around them, soft as silk, and Hank leaned down, kissing her fully now, deeply. June parted her lips with a soft gasp, her arms wrapping around his neck. The kiss grew deeper, urgent but still unhurried, like rediscovering something sacred.
Hank's hands slid down her waist and gripped the backs of her thighs. In one smooth movement, he lifted her, her legs wrapping around his hips, her back pressing gently against the warm tile.
"Is this okay?" he asked against her skin.
She nodded, breathless. "More than okay."
What followed wasn't just physical—it was every whispered late-night promise, every look across the dinner table, every tear wiped during 3 a.m. feedings. Liam touched her with reverence. His mouth worshipped her, his fingers tracing every curve like she was poetry and prayer in the same breath.
Steam curled around their silhouettes, the air thick with heat and water and the weight of their love. When her soft cries filled the space, Liam kissed her to muffle them, holding her like she was made of starlight and ache.
Later, when the water had gone cold and they lay tangled in bed, hair damp and hearts still beating wildly, June traced lazy circles on his chest.
"Did we wake her?" she murmured.
Hank grinned. "I think we're safe. For now."
She closed her eyes and smiled.
There, in the quiet afterglow, June felt something she hadn't in a long time—whole. Not just as a mother, but as a woman. As a lover. As herself.
And beside her, Hank—her rock, her flame, her home—watched her drift to sleep, silently vowing to keep carving out these stolen moments, this sacred space where it was just the two of them.
Because love didn't end at parenthood. It deepened, quietly. And in the hush between breaths, they found each other again.