This simple, repetitive act felt alien. My hands knew how to strip a weapon, how to break a joint, how to end a life before the body hit the floor. Those movements burned in my muscle memory.
But washing clothes? There was no corresponding file. No instinct told me how much soap to use or how hard to scrub.
My fingers were rough against the wet cotton. Too rough. I loosened my grip, forcing a gentleness that didn’t come naturally.
This was Clare’s.
I shook the shirt out, damp warmth clinging to my skin, and hung it over the shower rod beside my own jeans. The space heater hummed in the corner, working overtime to dry everything.
I reached for the next item. Her jeans. Heavy denim, stiff with water.
White light exploded behind my vision.
My grip tightened on the porcelain sink edge. Not a headache. Not the throb of the concussion. This was different.
Bright. Sterile. Cold metal under my back.
It lasted two seconds. A glitch in the system.
The white faded, leaving me gasping, staring at the swirling suds in the drain. My pulse slammed against my ribs.
I waited for pain. For nausea.
Nothing. Just the echo of blinding light and a sensation of absolute, freezing cold that vanished as quickly as it arrived.
Head trauma. Had to be. The concussion playing tricks on wiring that had been rattled too hard.
My reflection in the fogged mirror was a blur. A ghost.
I didn’t shake it off. I filed it away.
Don’t tell Clare.
She was already fraying at the edges, holding herself together with sarcasm and caffeine she didn’t have. She didn’t need to worry that my brain was misfiring.
I finished wringing out her jeans. Hung them up. Checked the heater.
The task was done.
I breathed in the thick, humid air. It smelled of cheap soap and clean fabric.
Safety. It smelled like safety.
I grabbed a towel, wrapping it low around my hips. The damp heat of the bathroom clung to me as I opened the door and stepped into the main room.
Cooler air hit my skin, raising goosebumps. The afternoon light filtered through the dormer window, painting the room in shades of gray and gold.
Clare sat at the small desk, back to me. She was wrapped in the duvet, her hair still damp from her own shower, a chaotic copper mess piled on her head. The blue glow of the laptop illuminated her profile.
She was furiously typing, shoulders hunched with focus.
I stopped. Watched her.
Beautiful.
Want hit me low and hard. The memory of her coming apart beneath me, the sounds she made, the way she’d looked at me, reckless and open, it burned.
She stopped typing. Rubbed her temples.
