He stepped under the spray, hissing as the water hit the bruise.
“Keep the shoulder out of the direct stream,” I instructed, my voice flat, professional.“Turn thirty degrees to the right.”
He adjusted.I grabbed the bottle of 2-in-1 from his caddy.I poured a measure into my palm and stepped into the spray, ignoring the water soaking the front of my shirt.
“Head down.”
He tipped his head forward.I worked the lather into his hair, fingers digging into his scalp.It was mechanical—scrub, rinse, repeat—but the sound of his breath hitching in the echoey stall betrayed the tension.
“Eyes closed,” I murmured.
I rinsed the suds away, shielding his face with my hand.I moved to his back.
I soaped the sponge.I washed his neck, the broad expanse of his scapula, the curve of his spine.I treated his skin like a topographic map—terrain to be navigated.But it was impossible not to feel.The muscle under my hand was hard and hot.
“Turn,” I said.
He turned slowly.He kept his eyes closed, water streaming down his lashes.
I washed his chest, careful to avoid the angry purple blooming on his shoulder.My knuckles brushed his sternum.He sucked in a breath.
“Steady,” I warned.“Almost done.”
I washed his good arm.I washed his stomach, my hand moving in efficient, quick circles, refusing to linger on the V of his hips.I handed him the sponge.
“Can you manage the rest?”
He nodded, not opening his eyes.“Yeah.”
“I’ll wait outside the curtain.”
I stepped back, my shirt clinging damply to my chest, and leaned against the sink.My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but I forced my breathing to match the steady drum of the water.
Two minutes later, the water cut off.
“Towel,” he called.
I handed it around the curtain.He emerged a moment later, wrapped at the waist, skin pink and scrubbed clean.
“Efficient,” I said, handing him his clean boxers.
“Humiliating,” he corrected, though there was no heat in it.
“Medical necessity.”I unlocked the main door, checking the corridor again.“Coast is clear.Move.”
We made the walk back in silence.Once inside the safety of our room, the energy shifted.The clinical detachment frayed at the edges.
I helped him into a soft T-shirt, guiding the injured arm through the sleeve with the precision of a bomb disposal unit.He sat on the edge of the bed, damp hair plastered to his forehead, looking exhausted.
“Better?”I asked.
“Clean,” he whispered.“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said, turning away to hide hands that were shaking just a little.“Variable stabilized.”
He sat, back hitting the headboard like his strings had been cut.
“Pain level?”I asked.
