“We need to talk about hygiene,” I announce to Gregory.
He turns from the fireplace and cocks an eyebrow.
Cocks. Poor choice of words.
“Okay?” he says.
“I’m talking actual washing. Like, with soap and everything.” My face is already heating up because apparently I’m twelve years old. “The containers I’ve melted snow into aren’t enough for proper bathing. Not for two people. We need to heat a whole lot more water, so we can wash up properly.”
There’s a pause where we both seem to realize we’re about to have an incredibly awkward conversation about our bodies and washing them.
“Right.” He straightens, brushing bark dust off his hands. “How much water are we talking?”
Or maybe not so awkward.
Okay.
Right.
I do the mental math, trying not to think too hard about the fact I’m calculating water volume for washing Gregory’s very large, very muscular body. “Probably twenty gallons each? Heated in batches on the stove. It’ll take a couple hours minimum.”
“That’s a lot of propane,” he states.
“That’s also a lot of days without proper hygiene.” I cross my arms. “Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to smell like a... um, well, let me just say, fun fact, human bodies begin accumulating bacteria at accelerating rates once the skin’s natural microbiome gets disrupted and--”
“I get it.” He’s almost smiling. “You’re right. We should...bathe.”
Why does he make that word sound obscene?
And why the hell does it turn me on?
Get it together.
You’re discussing basic human hygiene here, not foreplay!
It’s not like we’re going to bathe together or anything.
Right?
Right.
“Okay, so.” I move to the kitchen, pulling out every large pot I can find. “We take baths in shifts. I’ll go first since I organized this whole thing. We’ll heat the water together, fill up the tub, and while I’m taking my bath, meanwhile you can heatyourwater. You’ll be too busy to think about me naked in the bathroom.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
Gregory goes very still.
“Not that you would think about that,” I add quickly, face flaming. “Obviously. Because that would be weird. And inappropriate. I just meant. You’ll be in the kitchen. Heating water. While I’m in there. Clothed. I mean, not clothed. But you won’t see. Oh my god, I’m going to stop talking now.”
His mouth twitches. “Probably wise.”
We eat a quick breakfast, then work in silence for the next hour, filling pots with melted snow and heating them on all six burners. The kitchen fills with steam that fogs the windows. He rolls up his sleeves, and I keep sneaking glances at him as hecarries heavy pots from range to counter, his forearms flexed under the weight.
There’s something weirdly intimate about this whole operation. Like we’re preparing for some kind of primitive ritual.
Which I guess bathing kind of is? Humans have been cleaning themselves since forever. Ancient Romans had whole social bathhouses. Medieval peasants had communal wash days. And here I am, heating water in a billionaire’s chalet like we’ve time-traveled to the 1800s.
“That should be enough,” Gregory says eventually, surveying the lineup of steaming pots. “Guest bathroom on this floor?”
