I keep my voice steady. “I know.”
A beat passes.
Then I ask, still gentle, “Can we take a shower?”
Sloane’s shoulders stiffen instantly, like she heard the word and felt attacked by it.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay,” I say softly. “But I’m gonna be honest—you don’t look fine.”
Her eyes flash to me, sharp for the first time in hours. “Wow. Thank you. That helps.”
There it is. The bite. The familiar edge that says she’s still in there somewhere.
I let my mouth twitch. “Anytime.”
Sloane stares at me like she wants to be angry, but she’s too tired to hold it.
“I don’t want to,” she admits, voice cracking on the last word.
My chest aches.
“I know.” I keep my tone low. “But it might make you feel…one percent less like you’re crawling out of your own skin.”
She swallows hard again.
Then, barely, she nods.
I stand and offer my hand.
Sloane hesitates like she’s deciding whether she can accept help without breaking.
Then she takes it. Her fingers are cold when they meet mine.
I pull her up slowly, careful, and she sways for a second before she catches herself. I don’t let go.
We move down the hallway at her pace—slow, quiet, the house creaking under our steps like it’s listening.
In the bathroom, I turn on the shower and adjust it until the steam starts to rise. I grab a towel. Another one. I set her shampoo and conditioner on the ledge and take my shirt off.
Sloane stands in the doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest, eyes fixed on nothing.
“You don’t have to—” she starts.
“I do,” I say gently. “Let me do this.”
Her eyes flick to mine.
For a second, she looks like she’s going to argue.
Then her face crumples just slightly, so fast it almost doesn’t happen, and she nods once. She carefully takes off her clothes, leaving them in a pile next to the vanity.
She steps in.
The water hits her shoulders, and she flinches like it hurts, then exhales like her body finally remembered what warmth feels like.
I stay just outside the curtain, close enough that she doesn’t feel alone, far enough that she doesn’t feel watched.
