He washes himself as an afterthought, turns off the water and dries us both with the same towel, then carries me to bed. “I’ll forget how to walk,” I murmur, my head resting against his strong shoulder. “If you don’t want to, you’ll never have to walk anywhere again.” My chest expands. My insides turn squishy. He means I wouldn’t have to walk because he’d gladly carry me.
