The loft was quiet.
Kate had barely spoken since they got home — not that Castle expected her to. He hadn't pushed. He knew the signs. Her strength was fierce, but trauma didn't always roar.
He watched her now as she moved slowly toward the bathroom to take a shower, a bundle of his clothes under one arm. everything with Tyson and Nieman, his grip on calm was thin. He knocked gently.
"Kate?"
No answer.
He waited three more seconds, then cracked the door open.
The steam hit him first. Then the image.
Beckett, fully dressed, sitting in the corner of the shower. The water streamed over her in steady, warm waves, but she wasn't crying, wasn't panicked — just still. Like she was catching up to herself.
She turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his. "Sorry," she said softly. "Just needed a minute. I didn't mean to worry you."
His heart clenched. "You didn't. I just… wanted to check in."
She nodded, not moving.
"Can I come in?"
Another nod.
He stepped inside, shoes and all, and knelt just outside the stall. "Do you want to get out?"
"I should," she said. "But… I don't really want to move yet."
He offered a half-smile. "Then don't. No rush. Can I… help you out of these?"
She hesitated. It wasn't fear. It was pride — habitual, protective. But her gaze softened.
"Yeah. That'd be okay."
Castle moved gently, like he was unwrapping something precious. He started with her boots, peeling them off one by one, then her socks. He passed a towel over the glass wall and she wrapped it around herself.
He stood, stepped back, giving her room.
She rose slowly, gracefully even now. When she stepped out of the shower, he met her eyes again. "Shirt?"
She nodded.
He pulled it over her head for her, steady hands, never lingering. Then her jeans. Her hips wobbled just slightly as she stepped out of them, and he was there, hands hovering in case she needed support.
"Thank you," she murmured, skin still flushed from the heat, damp strands clinging to her cheek.
He smiled and offered her one of his softest shirts. "For you, milady."
That earned him a faint smirk. "Chivalry's not dead, then."
"Only stunned by how amazing you will probably look in my clothes."
That pulled a small, quiet laugh from her. And God, he'd missed the sound.
She pulled on the shirt, then the sweatpants. He could see her settling into herself again, bit by bit — shoulders less tense, breathing more even.
In the bedroom, she climbed into bed without a word, sitting on his side. He followed, and when he sat beside her, she leaned into him — not heavily, just enough to let him know: I'm here. I'm letting you in.
His arm came around her naturally, and she tilted her head against his shoulder.
"Thanks for coming to get me," she said, quiet.
"I always will."
She didn't answer with words — just shifted, curling into him under the covers, letting the warmth and weight of his presence wrap around her. For tonight, that was all she needed.
And for him, it was everything.