He moved around her on one knee, using the soft terry cloth to blot the beads of water off her thighs, his gaze reverent—like she was art, and he was still admiring every brushstroke.
Ella met his eyes, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "You always do this."
"What?"
"Treat me like I'm glass. Like something precious."
Nicholas stood, lifting the towel to drape it over her shoulders before brushing his fingers down the side of her jaw. "Because you are."
She rolled her eyes—but her cheeks were pink, and he knew that look. She wasn't protesting. She just didn't know how to accept being cared for without teasing it into something lighter.
So he leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I like drying you off. It's not about pampering. It's about paying attention. About the little moments."
Ella sighed, half-exasperated, half-touched. "You make everything sound romantic."
"I am romantic," he said, completely unashamed.
She snorted. "You're shameless."
