The sheets were turned down, the lamp dimmed to a warm glow, when he picked up the edge of the blanket, intending to tuck it around her shoulders. “Let me,” he said, soft, the kind of gesture that felt safe—domestic, gentle, the sort of thing that said I care without demanding. But she shook her head, her legs swinging slightly as she sat on the edge of the bed.
“Undress first,” she said, and it wasn’t a request. Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact, like she was asking for a glass of water, but her eyes held a flicker that made his fingers pause on the blanket. He’d thought this was the end of the night—the soft, sleepy part where you say goodnight with a kiss on the forehead. But clearly, she had other plans.
“Tuck me in after,” she added, sliding back against the pillows, her gaze trailing over him in a way that left no room for misunderstanding. He set the blanket down, his throat going dry, and started unbuttoning his shirt. This was a shift, from caretaking to something sharper, more alive. He’d wanted to take care of her, but she wanted him to be with her—fully, unreservedly, no layers between them.
When he finally climbed into bed beside her, she reached for the blanket, pulling it over both of them, and smiled. “Better,” she said, her hand resting on his chest, “now you’re tucked in too.” He laughed, the sound low and warm, and wrapped his arm around her. Some offers to care for someone are just invitations to let them care for you—on their terms.