Joseph's POV
Whether it comes from the brutal fight we just endured, the broken leg that Oliver is desperately trying to mend, or simply the weight of everything pressing down on me, exhaustion floods through my bones. Still, no amount of fatigue could make me pass up the chance to have my mate join me in the shower. The fact that she plans to keep her shirt on doesn't bother me in the slightest. There's a reason humans invented wet t-shirt contests.
The hot water cascades over my shoulders as I let it work loose the dried blood and dirt matted in my hair. When I glance down at the crimson stream swirling toward the drain, I wonder just how terrible I must look right now. Under normal circumstances, my appearance wouldn't matter to me, but I find myself caring what my mate thinks. She hasn't seemed shocked by the violence or bothered by my need to project strength in front of the pack, but that doesn't guarantee she's comfortable with all of this.
