Accidentally Yours Chapter 35

**Lola**

The bath was warm. Soft-lit. Steam curling off her skin as she sat nestled between Enzo’s thighs, his arms lazily draped over the sides of the massive soaking tub like a smug Roman god.

Her knees floated just above the surface. His chin rested on her shoulder.

For once, neither of them said anything wild.

No biting.

No dares.

Just soft breaths. Wet skin. And the occasional drip of water echoing in the silence.

“You always this well-stocked or was this left from your last kidnapping?” she asked, eyes flicking to the fancy oils on the edge of the tub.

He nuzzled into her neck, voice low and smug. “I don't bring conquests into my personal space, so these oils, that are in your sent, are new for you. Had the staff bring in a few things,” he said casually, brushing a thumb along her shoulder. “Figured you’d need something to help soothe those sore muscles after the chase.”

So thoughtful.

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t move. “Mmm so this was inevitable?”

He kissed just behind her ear. “Absolute.”

They towel-dried in playful silence—stealing glances, dodging each other’s hands. He handed her a plush black towel like it was some sort of peace treaty. She accepted it, only to flick him in the ass with the edge as he turned.

“Rude,” he muttered.

“Would Sir like another?” She playful shot back with one eyebrow slightly raised.

She wrapped the towel around herself and followed Enzo through the soft-lit hallway, her skin still tingling from the heat.

He moved ahead of her, damp and barefoot, silent in that way only dangerous men ever mastered. When he opened the double doors at the end of the hall, she expected storage.

What she got was a gut punch.

She stepped inside before she could think better of it. Then froze.

Hoodies. Tees. Her style of boots. Leggings folded exactly how she did it—ankles tucked, never rolled. A bottle of her perfume. Her favorite gloss. A new sketchpad still in plastic with brand new pencils right next to it.

The air left her lungs.

This wasn’t just close.

This was specific.

She blinked. “This is… my stuff.”

“Not all of it,” Enzo said behind her. “But close.”

Her voice was soft. Suspicious. “How?”

“When the crew came to fix your door yesterday,” he said, “I had someone take photos. Your closet. Counter. Drawer. Just enough to get it right.”

She turned toward him. “So you staged a replica of my life… for fun?”

“No,” he said. “For you.”

Of course he did.

“You guessed all my sizes?”

“I didn’t guess.”

He didn’t even blink. “I've had my hands on you.”

Her chest tightened.

She looked around again, slower this time—at the boots, the gloss, the sketchpad waiting on the shelf.

Inevitable.

The word whispered across her brain like a memory. That moment in the tub, half-joking, skin-warm, walls down—

“So this was inevitable?”

“Absolute.”

And here he is. Proving it.

She blinked quickly and looked away, trying to hide whatever was flickering across her face. “You really did all this… before you even knew if I was staying.”

“I’ve never done this before.”

She paused. “The closet?”

He motioned loosely between them. “This.”

She stared at him, unsure how to process the weight in his voice.

She swallowed, the words sticking.

“This is… a lot.”

She tried to joke, tried to shake it off, but it caught in her throat.

“No one’s ever looked out for me like this,” she said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

“Not unless they wanted something in return.”

She glanced down at the shirt in her hands.

“Except Baba. She’s the only one who ever did it just to keep me safe.”

Enzo didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.

Lola took a breath, but it didn’t settle.

“This isn’t normal for me. And I’m not sure how to carry it.”

He stepped forward—not to push, not to crowd, just enough to take the hanger gently from her hand.

“This isn’t a trade,” he said, quiet and sure.

“It’s just here. For you.”

That landed harder than she wanted it to.

Her voice barely held. “You sound so sure.”

“I’m not.”

She met his eyes.

He looked terrifyingly calm. And completely sincere.

Goddamn him.

“This is the part where I make a joke,” she said softly.

“You could.”

She took the outfit back, fingers wrapping tighter than they needed to.

“This might be worse,” she murmured.

And without another word, she turned and headed to the bathroom to change—towel rustling, hair dripping, throat tight.

And Enzo let her go.

Because whatever this was?

It was already too much to undo.

The bathroom was quiet.

Steam still clung to the mirror, curling around her reflection like fog on glass. Her towel was damp. Her hair hung heavy. But it wasn’t the water weighing her down—it was everything else.

She leaned forward, braced her hands on the sink, and stared at herself like she might catch up.

***I kidnapped him.***

***He gave me a giant diamond ring.***

***I tattooed his bite mark onto my skin.***

***He said he loved me.***

She shut her eyes.

Tried to breathe.

***What the fuck is happening.***

The bath had been a dream. Warm, weightless, slow. The kind of thing people in love did in movies. The kind of thing she didn’t get.

But Enzo hadn’t touched her like a fantasy. He’d touched her like she mattered.

And then the closet.

***That fucking closet.***

She turned, eyes landing on the outfit hanging on the back of the door. The black zip-up. The leggings. The little details that screamed her.

He could’ve bought her diamonds. He could’ve filled that closet with silks and satin and expensive things that looked better in photographs than on real skin. That’s what men like him did, right?

***Except he didn’t.***

He bought her clothes.

Soft, practical, crooked-hemmed chaos she’d actually wear. Things she could fight in. Breathe in. Live in.

Not once had he tried to make her look like she belonged to his world.

He’d made space for her to belong in her own skin.

And somehow, that wrecked her worse than all of it.

She ran a hand through her damp hair and let out a low laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “What the hell am I doing?”

She slipped into the clothes one piece at a time—slowly, reverently. Each zip, each pull of fabric felt heavier than it should’ve. Like stepping into something dangerous. Like sliding into a truth she hadn’t meant to touch yet.

But when she looked up again, something shifted.

Not everything had to be survival.

She stood there, fully dressed, breathing steady. The clothes hugged her like they knew her body. Like they were made for it. Like maybe this moment wasn’t about pretending anymore.

***Maybe—just maybe—it was about trying.***

***He hasn’t known me long enough to make sense like this.***

***And yet—here I am.***

***Wearing clothes he somehow got exactly right.***

***Still warm from a bath he had drawn just to soothe me after chasing me through a casino.***

***Thinking about the way he looked when he said he might love me like it wasn’t some kind of trap.***

***This shouldn’t work.***

***Nothing about it makes sense.***

***And still… it feels like something solid under my feet for the first time in a long fucking while.***

***He hasn’t asked for anything.***

***Just gave. And waited.***

***And for once?***

***I don’t feel like I have to run.***

She stared at herself in the mirror and rolled her eyes at her own reflection.

“Don’t screw this up just because it feels different.”

And then, softer—almost smiling—

“Try, Lo. Just try.”