He cleans every cut with the same precision. Some are just scrapes, the skin barely broken. Some are deeper, little gashesthat will leave scars if they don’t heal right. He doesn’t miss a single one. When he’s done with my legs, he moves to my arms, then my neck, then my face.
I don’t think he blinks the entire time.
When he’s satisfied that I’m not going to bleed out or get infected, he grabs a bar of soap and starts working it into my skin. He’s not gentle, but it’s not rough either. It’s matter-of-fact, the way you’d wash a car or a dog or a piece of machinery that you needed to keep running at all costs.
He gets every inch of me, turning me with his hands, even lifting my feet to scrub between the toes. When he gets to my hair, he kneels behind the tub and pours water over my head, then works in the shampoo, slow and careful. His fingers are strong, and they knead my scalp until I feel the tension leaking out through the ends of my hair.
He rinses, then does it again.
After the second wash, he wraps my head in a towel and tugs me to sitting. “Turn,” he says.
I do, and he inspects the back of my neck. There’s a scratch there, longer than I thought. He dabs it clean, then smooths ointment over it with his thumb.
“You’re thorough,” I say.
He grins, a flash of teeth. “Just taking care of my girl.”
He looks me in the eyes, then runs his hand over my shoulder, down my spine, and into the water, stopping just above my tailbone, rubbing little circles into my lower back.
Then he pulls the plug, and the water starts to drain. He helps me stand, then lifts me out of the tub, wrapping a towel around my shoulders.
He pulls the towel off my head, then takes a comb and works through the tangles, starting at the ends and moving up. It doesn’t hurt, not the way it usually does. He’s methodical, patient. By the time he’s done, my hair is flat and smooth.
“Braid your hair, I’m gunna put new water in.” I giggle as I start a French braid and by the time I’m finished and it’s tied off with an elastic band, he has the tub refilled. This time adding a handful of Epsom salts and a splash of whatever pine-menthol stuff he found. He gets in first, then gestures for me to join him.
I do, and lean back against his chest. His arms go around my waist, holding me there, tight enough that I can feel his heartbeat through my spine.
We sit like that for a long time, saying nothing.
Eventually he starts massaging my shoulders, working his thumbs into the muscle until I go limp. He does the same for my neck, then down my arms, stopping at the wrists to rub circles over the old scars there.
He doesn’t ask about them. He just keeps going, as if this is what he was made for.
Loving me. Taking care of me.
I close my eyes. The heat is overwhelming, the room humid and thick, but it feels good. Better than good. I feel weightless, untethered from the pain and the memory and the need to always be ready for the next bad thing.
His mouth finds the side of my neck. He doesn’t kiss, just rests there, breathing slow and steady.
I let myself relax. It’s dangerous, but right now, I don’t care.
When the water goes cold, he helps me out, dries me off again, and carries me to his bed. He lays me down, then stretches out beside me, one arm under my head, the other draped over my ribs.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this safe. Not even with my mother. Not ever.
I want to tell him that, but the words get stuck.
Instead, I turn toward him, rest my head on his chest, and listen to the steady thump of his heart.
It’s enough.
For now, it’s enough.
I wake before Colton. The room is pale with early light, the air crisp and clean, edged with the scent of laundry and old dust. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. I stretch, and the shirt I’m wearing pulls tight across my shoulders, sleeves swallowing my hands. It’s Colton’s, white and soft and huge on me. I bury my nose in the fabric, and the smell of him cuts through every bad memory I have.
He’s on his back, one arm flung over his head, mouth parted just enough to show a hint of teeth. He looks younger like this. Softer. The bruise on his jaw is turning from blue to yellow, and there’s a scratch healing under his chin. I watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his lashes quiver with each breath. He sleeps like he fights—deep, total, unconcerned with the world.
I roll out of bed and hit the floor, legs shaky but working. My body hurts, but in a dull, distant way. I flex my fingers and toes. All present and accounted for.
