I lower myself fully into the water, steam rising, shoulders finally dropping an inch. The ache doesn’t vanish, but it dulls, spreads out, becomes manageable.
He kneels beside the tub and rolls up his sleeves.
Soap next. Neutral. Unscented. Nothing that could turn this into something else.
He works methodically. Wrist first – careful, light. Forearm. Shoulder. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t linger either. When he reaches my hair, he gathers it gently and pours water over my scalp, one measured cup snatched from beside the sink at a time.
“Lean forward,” he says.
I do.
His fingers move through my hair with the same controlled attention he gives everything else, massaging soap into my scalp just enough to clean, not enough to soothe too deeply. Thetouch is intimate without being indulgent, grounding without pretending this is comfort.
I close my eyes.
For the first time since I was taken, maybe even arrested, my body stops bracing for the next impact.
The silence stretches, broken only by water and breath. My breathing slows. My pulse follows.
When he’s finished, he rinses me carefully, then helps me stand. A towel appears around my shoulders immediately, thick and warm, cocooning. The towels are nicer than the rest of the place, which is a welcome surprise. Or maybe they’re just better than the ones at the facility.
He dries me without ceremony, only hesitating when it comes to dressing me, eyeing my stained clothes disdainfully before pulling his own shirt over his head and enveloping me in it. It’s soft, warm, smells of him and I instinctively relax. By the time he guides me back to the bed, my limbs feel heavy in a way that borders on sleep.
He tucks the blankets around me with the same precision he’s used all night.
“I’ll be right here,” he says, already settling into the chair.
I manage to turn my head enough to see him before my eyes close again. “I know.”
Sleep takes me before the room has time to argue.
I surface slowly,like I’m rising through thick water.
I’m warm. That’s the first thing I notice – not pain, not fear. Warmth. Heavy blankets, heat sunk deep into my muscles like I’ve been resting for longer than I remember agreeing to.
For a few seconds I don’t move. I let the sensation exist without interrogating it, because I’ve learned that the moment I ask questions, answers tend to arrive with teeth.
The bed is unfamiliar. Too wide. Sheets smooth and clean against my skin, tucked properly, hospital-tight without the smell of disinfectant. My hair is damp at the ends, loose against my neck.
Memory filters back in fragments:Water, steaming gently instead of scalding. Strong hands, precise, unhurried. Soap worked into my skin like a ritual, not a rush. His voice low, controlled, narrating just enough to keep me anchored. I’ve got you. Lean forward. Breathe.
I swallow and listen as the room breathes around me – the low hum of electricity, the distant city muffled by height and glass. No alarms. No raised voices. No footsteps pacing outside the door. A chair creaks.
That’s enough.
My body feels…wrong. Settled. Not healed – I can feel the bruises if I focus, the deep ache under my ribs, the faint soreness at my throat – but contained. Dulled to background noise. Like everything is where it’s supposed to be, even if I don’t like that idea. My chest rises and falls steadily, pulse even, obedient.
Too obedient.
My hand drifts to my stomach before I can stop it.
There you are.
The calm there is immediate, unwavering. No echo of fear. No residual tension. Just a quiet, steady presence, like whatever happened barely registered.
You should be unsettled,I silently tell it.I know I was.
Nothing answers that thought. No flutter of anxiety. No protest. Just quiet continuity, as if whatever happened never interrupted it at all.
