Noelle's POV
The crisp sweetness of the watermelon melts on my tongue as I sit comfortably on the plush cushions of our room. The scent of salt lingers in the air, mixing with the faint fragrance of the oils(thanks to me, I'm not having him look 70 at 50) Thorne uses after his bath.
The door creaks open, and in he walks.
Naked.
I take another slow bite of the watermelon, chewing thoughtfully as my gaze drags over him.
He's so handsome. Strong. Tall. Every muscle on his body carved by battle, honed by war. His skin glistens slightly, droplets of water still trailing down his chest as he dries himself with a cloth.
The scar on his leg—the only visible remnant of a wound from long ago—doesn't take anything away from him. If anything, it adds to him, a mark of survival, of strength.
And he's mine.
So, let me stare. Let me ogle. Let me appreciate every inch of my husband in all his unbothered, half-dressed glory.
But something is missing.
He hasn't touched me in a while.
