Like I was holding him. Like we were embracing.
My heart raced. Heat flooded my face.
Professional. This is professional.
Except it didn’t feel professional. Felt like crossing into territory I couldn’t uncross.
Dipped the rag in warm water, squeezed it out. Started washing his back with slow, careful strokes. Water traced the landscape of his spine, following the ridge of muscle, the constellation of scars.
So many scars.
Some surgical, clean lines, precise. Others jagged, violent. Burns. Blades. Impacts that should have killed him.
My touch followed them without permission. Tracing damage I wanted to understand. Wondering what kind of life left marks like these. Wondering who’d hurt him. Wondering if anyone had ever touched him gently.
Lower between his shoulder blades. His breathing shifted, deepening. The tension in his frame eased by degrees.
He was relaxing against me.
Trusting me enough to let his guard down. Even for a moment. Even this much.
An ache spread through my ribs.
“You’re built like you were made for violence.” The words came quiet. Honest. “But someone took care of you once. Thesescars, some of them were treated properly. Stitched clean. Someone gave a damn whether you survived.”
His grip tightened slightly on my waist. Acknowledgment, maybe. Or just reaction to touch he couldn’t place.
I kept washing. Down his spine, across his ribs, careful around bandages. The water cooling as I worked, his body warm beneath my fingertips.
“I don’t know what happened to you. Don’t know who did this. But you’re safe here. For now. Whatever else is true, that is.”
His head shifted on my shoulder. Just slightly. Like he was listening.
Like he believed me.
Pressure built in my throat.
Rinsed the rag, applied more soap. Started on his sides, working methodically. Every stroke mapping him. Learning the geography of damage and survival.
Learning him.
The silence between us felt different now. Not empty. Full of things neither of us could say: him because he couldn’t speak, me because I didn’t have words for what this was.
For what we were becoming.
Finished his back, rinsed one more time and dried him. “Done. You can sit forward now.”
He didn’t immediately pull away. Just stayed there, weight against me, palms on my waist. Breathing steady and deep.
Like he didn’t want to move either.
Finally shifted, sitting upright slowly. The loss of his warmth felt immediate. Cold rushed in where his body had been. I helped him ease down to the mattress again.
Slid off the bed, needing distance. Needing space to think without the distraction of touching him.
Twisted out the rag, focused on the basin. “Your legs next.”
He studied me circle around the bed, position myself at his feet. Pulled the covers just enough to expose one leg.
