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He watched her, distraught and tired, but he acquiesced, cradling her jaw in his shaking hand before he let go to start shedding his belt.

"Fine," he said. "But ******** you, I'm still proud of you."

"Like a ******** princess," he agreed, airy and flippant, giving her hand a squeeze.

And although he hadn't said anything while he waited for her to cry herself out--just sat in silence, his arms folded over hers with his hands around her wrists, steady and unwavering and measuring his breaths carefully so she wouldn't realize that he was silently joining in--and although he didn't say anything about it while they sat until they pruned up and the water got cold (and then, drawn a second time, got cold again) and he gently distracted her along safe conversational paths away from her sobs; although he didn't say anything when he wrapped her in a towel and surprised her (and himself, a little) by insisting on carrying her back to her room ("please, I like it")--

--he did say, finally, when they were there, that he loved her and then, gently, as though she needed the reminder again, that he liked her. That he wasn't taking it easy on her or making exceptions for her; that he meant it.