This is intimacy. This is what she confessed to wanting. To be taken care of. To have the choice removed.
"Does it feel good?" I ask, my voice a low rumble.
Her eyes flutter open. They are hazy, confused. For a second, she forgets to hate me.
"Yes," she whispers.
The single word hits me like a drug.
I rinse her hair, the water running clear.
"Stand up."
The spell breaks. She stiffens. "Silas..."
It’s the first time she’s used my name. It sounds right on her tongue.
"Stand up, Ivy."
She stands. Water cascades off her body, glistening on her skin. She is a goddess rising from the depths. I look at her—really look at her. The curve of her hips. The dark triangle between her legs. The way her thighs tremble.
I grab a plush white towel from the warmer and stand up. I wrap it around her, pulling her against me.
I don't dry her immediately. I just hold her. My arms wrap around the towel, trapping her against my body. My wet shirt clings to my chest, soaking through to my skin, but I don't care.
She rests her forehead against my chest. She’s exhausted. The adrenaline crash is hitting her hard.
"Why me?" she asks, her voice muffled against my shirt. " out of all the people in the city... why me?"
I rest my chin on top of her wet head.
"Because you were the only one looking back," I say.
I dry her off, rubbing the towel briskly over her arms and legs. Then I lead her into the bedroom.
I walk to the walk-in closet—a room larger than her entire apartment—and open a drawer. I pull out a pair of silk pajamas. Midnight blue.
I toss them onto the bed.
"Put these on."
She picks them up, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. She looks at the tag. It’s Italian.
She puts them on. The top buttons up the front. The pants have a drawstring.
She freezes when she ties the pants.
"They fit," she says, her voice hollow.
"Of course they fit."
She looks up at me, horror dawning in her eyes again. "How? How do you know my size? I never told anyone... I buy everything secondhand..."
"I have your medical records," I say, unbuttoning my wet cuffs. "I know your height, your weight, your blood type. I know you’re allergic to penicillin. I know you broke your left wrist when you were seven falling off a swing set."
I walk toward her, backing her up until her legs hit the edge of the mattress.
"I know that you prefer tampons to pads, but you buy the cheap generic brand that leaks. I bought you the organic cotton ones. They’re in the bathroom cabinet."
