Chapter 24: The Shower Confession
The bathroom was a silent, humid cavern. Margot released her hand, the playful mallet-swing gesture dissolving into the steam already curling from the pre-run shower. For a moment, they just stood there, the only sound the distant hiss of water and the pound of Y/n’s own pulse in her ears.
Then Margot turned. Her eyes were clear, the Harley-inflection gone, replaced by a focused, almost solemn curiosity. “Let’s get you out of this day,” she said, her own voice a soft scratch in the quiet.
Her hands went to the buckle of Y/n’s work pants, movements practical and slow. The metal clinked open. The rough canvas slid down Y/n’s hips, puddling on the dark tile with a weight that sounded final. Margot knelt, helping guide them over Y/n’s boots, which she then untied and tugged off. Each motion was a ritual. Peeling away the armor.
The tank top came next. Margot’s fingers grazed the sweat-damp skin of Y/n’s stomach as she gathered the hem. She lifted it up and over, and Y/n raised her arms, a gesture of surrender. The cool air hit her skin, raising goosebumps that were immediately softened by the room’s warmth.
Margot sat back on her heels, looking up. Her gaze was a physical touch, tracing the landscape of Y/n’s body. The defined muscles of her abdomen, the powerful lines of her shoulders and arms, all dusted with a fine, grey powder of concrete. A long, day-old bruise bloomed like a shadow on her ribcage. Margot’s expression didn’t pity it. She seemed to catalogue it. To honor it.
“Christ,” Margot whispered, not to Y/n, but to the fact of her. She reached out, her thumb brushing a smudge of grime from the sharp crest of Y/n’s hip bone. The touch was electrifying in its simplicity.
Standing, Margot quickly shed her own sweater and leggings, a casual intimacy that made Y/n’s throat tight. Then she took Y/n’s hand again and led her into the shower.
The water was a cascade of perfect, scalding heat. It hit Y/n’s back first, a blunt force that melted the coiled tension in her spine. She groaned, head bowing, as the water sluiced through her short curls, turning the dust into dark rivulets that raced down her neck, her chest, her legs. The grime of the city, the anger of the foreman, the weight of the beam—it all began to dissolve at their feet, swirling toward the drain.
Margot moved behind her. She reached for a bottle, the sound of a pump loud in the tiled space. The sharp, clean scent of bergamot filled the steam. Then her hands were on Y/n’s back, slick with soap, palms flat and moving in slow, firm circles over the dense muscle.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” Margot said, her voice close to Y/n’s ear, competing with the water’s roar. “Since you walked out that door this morning. Since… a week ago.” Her hands slid over the curve of Y/n’s shoulders, thumbs digging into the knots with a precise, knowing pressure. “Maybe longer.”
Y/n braced her hands against the wet tile, letting her head hang. The heat, the touch, the confession—it was almost too much. “Yeah?” was all she could manage.
“Yeah.” Margot’s soapy hands traveled down the wings of her back, then back up, tracing the line of her spine. “Watching you leave. All that purpose in those shoulders. It does something to me.” She worked the lather into Y/n’s skin, washing away the last visible traces of the site. Her touch grew less clinical, more exploratory. “You feel like you’re built to last.”
Y/n turned then, water streaming down her face. Margot’s blonde hair was plastered to her head and shoulders, her skin flushed pink. She looked unreal. And entirely, devastatingly real.
“You’re one to talk,” Y/n said, her voice rough. Her own hands came up, settling on Margot’s slick waist. The contrast was everything—her own squared, calloused fingers against the soft, narrow curve.
Margot smiled, a quick, private thing. She slid her hands up Y/n’s chest, over the planes of her pectorals, her thumbs brushing the sensitive skin beneath her collarbones. “I just play at being tough. You…” She shook her head, her eyes dropping to Y/n’s mouth. “You are.”
The space between them evaporated. Y/n kissed her, a hungry, water-logged press of lips that tasted of steam and want. It was different from before. There was no character between them now, no playful barrier. Just a week of anticipation and a day of strain cracking open.
Margot gasped into her mouth, hands coming up to cradle Y/n’s jaw. Her body arched into the contact, skin sliding against wet skin. Y/n’s grip on her waist tightened, anchoring them together as the water poured over them.
Breaking the kiss, breathless, Y/n looked at her. Questioningly. Margot nodded, a quick, certain dip of her chin.
Y/n bent, hooking one arm behind Margot’s knees, lifting her leg to wrap around her hip. Margot clung to her shoulders, her other foot finding purchase on the tile. There was no hurry. The water beat down on them, a relentless, warm drumbeat.
Y/n pressed into her, a slow, deliberate fit that made them both go still for a shattered second. A sharp, shared inhale lost in the spray. Then motion. A deep, rolling rhythm that was less about force and more about revelation. The push and yield. The way Margot’s body opened to hers, the way her own muscles, tired from holding everything up all day, now found a new, anchoring purpose.
Margot’s head fell back against the tile, a choked-off sound escaping her throat. It wasn’t a performance. It was raw, unfiltered. Her fingers dug into the muscle of Y/n’s shoulders, her hips meeting each slow thrust with a desperate precision.
“Right there,” Margot gasped, the words blending with a moan. “God, Y/n, right—”
Y/n buried her face in the wet column of Margot’s neck, breathing her in—bergamot, clean sweat, something uniquely her. The world narrowed to this: the slap of wet skin, the hammer of water, the ragged symphony of their breathing, the intense, clutching heat between them. Every nerve ending was alight, not with the day’s violence, but with this devastating, quiet claiming.
Margot’s body tightened around her first, a sudden, stunning constriction that pulled a broken curse from Y/n’s lips. She felt Margot shatter against her, a series of sharp, internal pulses and a cry that was half-sob, muffled against her own skin. That undid her. The last of her control snapped. Her rhythm faltered, turned deep and frantic, and she followed her over the edge, a low groan torn from her chest as everything clenched and then spilled into a blinding, liquid release.
For a long minute, they just clung to each other under the stream, trembling. The water began to cool. The world outside the glass, fogged into a opaque glow, started to seep back in.
Y/n carefully lowered Margot’s leg, her own muscles quivering with a pleasant, spent weakness. She reached out and turned off the water.
The sudden silence was roaring.
They stood there, dripping, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same air. Margot’s eyes were closed, her lashes spiky with moisture. She looked wrecked. Beautiful.
A slow, dazed smile touched her lips. “So,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Still think I’m just a good actress?”
Y/n laughed, a breathy, astonished sound that shook her entire body. She leaned in, kissing Margot once, softly, on the mouth. “Nah,” she murmured, her Brooklyn accent thick and warm. “I think you’re the realest thing that’s happened to me.”