Rex sank onto the wooden bench along the hall's side wall, the muscles in his legs protesting the sudden cessation of movement. Diana didn't hesitate; she knelt between his knees, claiming the space beside him with the casual certainty of someone who belonged there.
She began working the towel over his shoulders and neck, her movements unhurried and deliberate. This wasn't the efficient wiping of sweat from a soldier; it was the meticulous care of a woman tending to the man she loved.
Her hands moved with a gentleness that bypassed all tactical training, a tenderness born from the raw honesty of that first night when they had stopped pretending and admitted exactly what they wanted from each other.
"You worked harder than you needed to today," she murmured.
Her thumbs found the knots of tension that had calcified along his traps during those final, punishing drills. She pressed in, working the muscle loose with a precision that was both therapeutic and intimate.
