Nash’s voice. Sharp. Immediate. Then a knock. “You okay in there?”
“I’m fine!” I call, too fast.
“Did youfall?”
“No. Yes. Kind of. I’m fine!”
And naked.
And wet.
Sonaked and wet.
The doorknob turns. The door opens.
“Nash…! Don’t you dare?—”
He freezes halfway in the doorway, one hand on the frame like he’s anchoring himself. His eyes go wide, and then immediately—immediately—he turns away.
“I’m not looking,” he says quickly. “I just… are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt.” I clutch the edge of the tub, water pooling around me, wet hair stuck to my neck. “But everything fell. Including my dignity.”
He glances over his shoulder, cautious. “You sure you’re not hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“Your voice says ‘fine.’ Your situation says ‘humiliated.’”
“I hate you a little right now.”
He smirks without looking. “Glad you’re okay.”
Eyes carefully averted, Nash bends down, grabbing one crutch, then the other. His bare feet shift on the tile, and I watch the muscles move in his forearms as he tests each crutch before leaning them gently back against the wall—too far for me to reach on my own.
“I’ll hand you a towel,” he says, still facing the other way.
“I’m not made of porcelain, you know.”
“No,” he says, voice low. “You’re made of stubbornness and clear blue.”
That hits something I don’t have a name for.
Like a fault line cracking open somewhere deep inside me.
Like warmth flooding a place I forgot was cold.
“What did you just say?”
Nash reaches for the towel and holds it out without turning. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Still facing away, his voice deepens. “I said you’re stubborn. And bright. And impossible to ignore… even when I know I should.”
The silence thickens. It wraps around us like steam.
“I can’t get out,” I say softly, then clear my throat. “Without the crutches. I… I can’t get out on my own.”
