I know I should speak, say something that isn’t fucking mean as shit. But I can’t get my throat to work or my tongue to move.
It’s even harder when Tristen steps back just enough to pull his arms out of his wet shirt. He leaves it hanging around his neck where my hands are still pressed against him, the damp material collected in my fists.
It feels like a lifeline threaded between my fingers, begging me to hold on. To wait it out. To see this through.
And though there’s hot tears meddling with the water dripping down my face, I do.
I hold on with everything I have left in me.
“Can I?” he asks on a breath, the first words spoken in so long that it feels as if he screamed them. It takes me a long moment to realize he’s asking about my hoodie—hishoodie.
It takes even longer for me to finally nod.
Gingerly, he pulls at the sopping material, careful to leave my shirt behind, until he frees it from my head. My arms. It flops to the floor just outside of the shower curtain with a splat that doesn’t sound real.
Cold air leaks in through the curtain, making me shiver.
“How about the socks?” Tristen taps my foot with his bare toes and my nose crinkles.
“I hate feet.”
A weak chuckle fills the shower.
“It’s okay. Most people do.”
Eyes locked, searching mine, Tristen slowly lowers until his knees hit the tub, the warmth of his hands hovering over myankle. It feels like another tether to this moment, my grip tightening on the shirt around his neck.
My shivering becomes violent enough I have to lean into the wall to lift one foot.
“P-p-p-please don’t hate me.”
His eyes soften, his brows dipping.
“I don’t hate you, Em. I never could.”
I swallow hard as he tugs off the sock with gentle movements, then goes through the same slow process with the other one, waiting for me to catch my breath in between each step.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter wetly with my heart in my throat, my stomach rolling.
My toes clench and unclench in the water, the spray getting into my burning eyes, and not once does Tristen look away from my face.
“What next, baby?” he whispers thickly, the air in here gaining heft.
“I-I-I-I don’t know.”
A sad smile tips his lips, and it doesn’t reach his eyes.
There’s something there, something swimming beneath the surface of his whiskey brown irises that reflects what I feel. A darkness that feels insurmountable. A demon that feels too close.
Another shiver racks over me, and my teeth clatter.
“Shirt,” I murmur and grab the hem.
It’s safer than the rest.
He helps push it up to my ribs, his touch feather light and so goddamn warm I want to curl up on the shower floor and weep.
Everything about him makes me want to cry.
