hola mi amor

“I can do it,” I said, reaching for my favorite coconut-scented shampoo.

He took the bottle out of my hands. “That wasn’t what I asked,” he said, a hard note creeping into his voice. “I know you can. The question was, ‘Do you want me to?’ ”

I wanted to say yes. I was exhausted and sore and his hands felt exquisite as he played with my wet hair, his strong fingers massaging my scalp. I should say no. He doesn’t need to wait on me; I can take care of myself. If he had pushed, I would have said no, taken the bottle back, and washed my own hair.

I don’t know what he saw in my face or the tense lines of the muscles in my back that changed his tone from chiding to tender. Instead of simply taking the shampoo and washing my hair, he slid closer, his legs sliding around mine in the tub, pulling me back against the warmth of his chest, and wrapped his arms around me. He pressed his lips against my damp shoulder, and the sweetness of his kiss made my chest ache.