That’s all she’s been able to manage lately. Nods. Small words. Tiny permissions.
I work the conditioner through her ends, detangling with my fingers first, then smoothing it down like I’m trying to convince her body it’s safe to soften. When I rinse, she tips her head back under the stream, eyes squeezed shut, face angled toward the water like she’s letting it hold her up.
And when she finally turns the water off, she sways.
Not dramatically. Not enough to fall.
Just enough for my instincts to snap tight.
I’m there before she can pretend she doesn’t need me, one hand at her elbow, the other at her waist, steadying her as she steps onto the bathmat.
“Slo—”
“I’m fine,” she starts automatically, but it comes out weaker than she means it to.
I don’t call her on it. I just grab the towel and wrap it around her shoulders, then another one for her hair.
“Sit,” I say softly, nodding toward the closed toilet lid.
She blinks at me like she’s about to fight the suggestion out of pure habit.
Then she sits.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, quickly running a towel over my soaked clothes before running to grab a fresh pair of sweats from my bag.
Kicking out of my pants, I slide the sweats on before I return to the bathroom.
Grabbing another towel, I crouch in front of her and start drying her hair with the towel, careful not to tug. Her skin is flushed from the heat. Her lashes are darker with water. For anyone else, she’d look like a girl who took a shower.
To me, she looks like a girl trying to remember how to be a person.
“You can stop doing all this,” she whispers.
My throat tightens. “I want to do this. Let someone be the one to take care ofyoufor once. Let me be that person for you.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and there’s something raw there—something that feels too close to gratitude, too close to surrender.
I look away first, because if I stare too long, I’ll say things I’m not ready to put in the air.
I dry her arms, her shoulders, the back of her neck. I keep it practical, gentle. I keep my touch like a promise I can actually keep.
When her hair is damp instead of dripping, I reach into the drawer and pull out her brush.
Sloane watches it like it’s a weapon.
I lift my brows. “May I?”
She hesitates.
Then she nods again.
I move behind her and brush slowly, starting at the ends like my mom taught me when I was little—back before she stopped being my mom and started being something else.
I catch a snag and ease it out without yanking. Sloane’s breathing goes uneven for a second, like she almost cried just from the patience of it.
I keep brushing.
Stroke after stroke until her hair falls smooth down her back, dark and clean and soft.
