He grabs my head in both hands and kisses me. I let my eyelids fall closed while I pull him in. His lips are soft and wet. He slants his mouth over mine for real. A warm tongue sweeps the seam of my lips. Then we’re making out in a hospital shower, which is just insane. It’s not about sex, though. It’s comfort kissing. I like it a lot more than a palm on a forehead.
When Wes pulls back, he gives me a secretive little smile. “Tonight you’ll be home,” he whispers. “In our bed.”
Swallowing hard, I nod. I’d better be.
“Lift your arms,” he prompts.
When I do, he washes my underarms, skimming my sensitive skin with soap-slicked hands. Those palms continue their journey down my abs and into the juncture of my legs. He nudges my knees apart and washes my inner thighs, his fingertips grazing my balls. He lets his hand linger there, giving me one slow stroke. He’s reminding me that life isn’t always such a drag, and I’m grateful for the message.
Humming again, he takes the hose and washes away the soap, taking his time, touching me everywhere with admiring hands. “We should probably get out of here,” he says eventually.
“Yeah.”
The water shuts off, and Wes grabs both towels off the rack where they wait. He ties one around his waist, then drops one over my head and begins to rub my hair dry.
“I got it,” I say, lifting my heavy arms to do the work. “Could you see what Blake left me for clothes?”
“He brought flannel pants, so I brought your jeans this morning. Hang on.”
Wes dries himself hastily and climbs back into his boxers. Ihear him thumping around in the room, jumping into his clothes. He returns with underwear and jeans for me. “Stand up, babe.”
Creakily, I do. I dry myself off, but I do it while practically leaning on him. Wes chucks his towel onto the shower bench and then I sit on it to put my drawers on and then my jeans. He holds out a hand that I grab to stand up, and he pulls me into a hug.
If I’ve ever doubted his love for me, I’m an idiot.
“Come on.” He lets me move under my own power into the room, but he thrusts the chair at me. “Sit. You’ll feel better if you’re out of that bed for a little while.”
He’s right. I will.
I take a seat by the windows. Wes is digging through the duffel that Blake brought. “Hey, you want a shave?” He holds up a razor and a can of shaving cream.
“Here? Now?”
“You got something else you need to be doing right now?”
“No.” I chuckle.
Wes drapes my towel over my bare shoulders. He grabs some kind of little basin thing from a cabinet on the wall. I don’t even want to know what it’s supposed to be for. He fills it with water and leans over me. He lathers up my cheeks and chin, then inch by inch he shaves my stubbled face.
I can feel his breath on my cheekbone as he leans in to shave me carefully. The water is warm and so is his touch. Getting a shave at the barber shop used to be something dudes did in ye olden days, but now I know the process is weirdly intimate. My face is so sensitive to Wes’s touch. I enjoy the way his free hand cups my jaw, his thumb stroking over my cheek to check his work.
When he switches sides, I get a kiss on the back of my neck. “I’m supposed to go to Nashville in the morning,” he says as two fingers tap beneath my chin. “Lift.”
I lift. “Go. I’ll be fine,” I say quickly. “I’ll order take-out soup and watch TV at home. That’s all I need, anyway. A few days of quiet. I’ll be good as new.”
He’s almost finished when Bertha walks back in. “Look at you!” she crows. “Somebody looks happier.”
Do I? I guess so. It’s good to be clean.
She doesn’t say a word about the steam in the air or our damp hair and bare feet. Instead, she gathers the sheets up off the bed and disappears, returning a minute later with a clean set. She puts them on while Wes finishes smoothing the last bits of shaving cream off my face.
“Now sit here again for me,” Bertha says, lifting the back of the bed and pointing at it. “They’re going to bring you some chicken noodle for lunch while I chase down your release paperwork.”
The soup is tasteless, but I eat it anyway in case it’s some kind of test of my ability to go home. Wes and I end up splitting the chocolate croissant, and I choke down my half. I have no appetite at all. But I’m tired of feeling so weak.
Wes finds a photo on Facebook of my new niece. And then by some miracle, my release papers turn up. Wes chats with a doctor about all those freaking tests, but I don’t even listen. They haven’t turned up anything of interest, and I just want to put the nightmare behind me.
The final insult is the wheelchair Bertha brings for me. “It’s a rule,” she insists. “Just like on TV.”
