Breathe - Fleurie & Tommee Profitt
Hatchet
Kayla doesn’t announce it.
She just stands, rubs her hands together once like she’s cold, and says, “I need the bathroom.”
No one argues.
Kayla doesn’t look at any of us.
She just turns and walks into the en suite bathroom, shoulders tight, spine straight, like she’s holding herself together by force of will alone.
The door closes but doesn’t lock.
Bones shifts like he’s about to move. Honey inhales, then stops himself. Ghost’s gaze flicks to me, quick and assessing.
I reach for my pad.
I’ll go.
I turnit so they can see.
Bones studies the words, then nods once and steps back. Honey exhales through his nose, conceding without comment.
I follow.
I don’t crowd her. Don’t rush. Just stay close enough that she knows I’m there.
She’s flicked the light on, and is kneeling by the tub. She twists the tap hard enough that it squeals. Steam rises almost immediately.
Too hot.
Of course it is.
She stares into the filling bath like she’s daring it to hurt her.
I reach past her and adjust the tap.
She doesn’t stop me.
That matters.
She strips quickly, impatient, no ceremony, no invitation either, and steps into the tub before it’s finished filling. Hisses as the heat bites, then sinks down until the water laps at her collarbones.
I crouch beside the bath.
She’s shaking. Not visibly. Not dramatically. Just a fine, constant tremor under her skin, like she’s been vibrating too long at a frequency no one else can hear.
I pick up the sponge. Dip it into the water. Squeeze it once.
Still too hot.
She closes her eyes when I start washing her arms. Slow. Methodical. Elbow to wrist. Wrist to palm. Fingers last.
I don’t speak.
I don’t write.
