NO REASSURANCE
Us Against The World - Chris Grey
Kookaburra
The world doesn’t move for a few seconds longer.
We stay like that – breathing, steadying – and then Nightshade’s hand shifts at my back, deliberate, grounding. Not an invitation. A decision.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “We need to get you cleaned up.”
I don’t argue. The idea of warm water settles something tight inside my chest before I even realise it’s there. My body is already leaning toward the next instruction, the next contained step.
It’s funny. I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions most of the time. But Nightshade taking control right now, telling me what to do, brings me a certain kind of relief I haven’t felt in a long time.
He keeps a hand on me as we move, guiding rather than steering, opening the bathroom door with his free hand. The light inside is soft, yellowed, deliberately not harsh. He reaches immediately for the tap, adjusting the temperature before I’m even fully inside.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the edge of the tub.
I do.
The porcelain is cool beneath me. It’s not a full size bath, but who cares. I’ve not had the option to bathe since the asylum. There were only showers at…what should I call the place? I never really gave it much thought when I was there but now it feels like I should.
“Where was I?” I ask, my voice croaking slightly as I try to get the words out.
“Abandoned medical facility,” Nightshade informs me.
Facilitythen,I think.The asylum had a bath. The facility only had showers. And this hotel looks like the bath has seen many a dead body.
It’s actually a reassuring thought.
Steam begins to curl upward as the bath fills, water whispering instead of roaring. He tests it with his hand, adjusts it again, precise. Nothing rushed. Nothing left to chance.
I watch him from where I’m perched, heart still too loud in my ears, adrenaline dragging its heels on the way out. My hands shake faintly when I rest them on my thighs.
Nightshade notices.
He always did and now he seems more intense than ever. Obsessed. With me? Or the parasite?
“That’s fine,” he says, calm as a flatline. “You don’t have to hold it together yet.”
The bath fills. The sound is steady, almost hypnotic.
When he turns back to me, his gaze drops briefly to the bruises at my throat, my wrist. Something hardens there – notanger exactly, but intent. He reaches for the hem of my shirt and pauses, eyes lifting to mine.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
I nod once. “I won’t.”
That earns me the faintest tightening at the corner of his mouth. Approval, maybe. Or acknowledgement.
He moves slowly. Shirt first, careful not to jar me, not to catch fabric against sore skin. His hands are warm, steady, entirely focused on function. When my bra comes next, he avoids my ribs without me asking, adjusting automatically.
I breathe.
When he helps me step into the bath, the water laps gently around my legs, then my hips, heat sinking into muscle and bone. The relief is immediate and treacherous. My knees threaten to give.
Nightshade’s hand closes around my forearm, solid. “I’ve got you. Relax.”
