“Unless you want me using your fancy master suite tub?” I ask.
He purses his lips. “Guest bathroom is fine.”
We carry the pots down the hall in awkward silence. I’m super aware of how close we’re walking, how our arms almost brush with each step. We dump the contents into the tub, and then return to the kitchen to grab the next batch. It takes three runs until we get all the water dumped out.
After that last run, he sets the empty pots on the counter while I test the temperature in the tub.
“Perfect. Okay, so.” I turn to face him and immediately regret it because we’re standing very close in a very small bathroom and this is extremely weird. “I’ll, um. Wash. You can go back to the kitchen and melt yours now. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. “Take your time.”
Then he leaves, closing the door behind him.
I lean against the sink and let out a shaky breath.
What is wrong with you?
He’s the literal human embodiment of environmental destruction.
Hello, Brazil?
But my stupid mind keeps replaying the way he looked at me just now. Like I’m not some annoying inconvenience he’s stuck with. Like I’m... something else.
Stop it.
I strip off my borrowed clothes. His Columbia hoodie that I’ve basically lived in for three days, and the thermal layers beneath. Everything smells bad. Like, really bad.
How delightful.
Using a washcloth and the precious heated water, I scrub three days of grime and sweat and general grossness from my skin.
It feels ridiculously good.
Better than good.
I might actually be moaning a little as I work his coconut shampoo through my disgusting hair.
The scent fills the small bathroom, sweet and familiar and comforting.
I can’t help but recall the day I arrived. When he washed my hair while I was feverish and held my hand through the night and--
Shut up, brain.
When he shouts through the door, I start.
“I left you some clean thermal layers here,” he tells me.
Was he just spying on me through the keyhole??
I turn toward the door. No keyhole. And no other obvious cracks.
That’s right, Sorrel, just being paranoid you again.
When I get over the shock, I finally call back: “Thanks.”
I finish up, then dry off with one of his obscenely soft towels. I wrap it around myself, open the door, and find the promised set of thermal layers waiting. The thoughtfulness of it makes my throat tight.
I grab them and shut the door. I slide on my old bra and panties... they’re stinky, but I refuse to go commando, especially while I’m trapped here alone with him.
