He snorted. “I’m not entirely useless, you know.”
“It’s not that—it’s just, no one’s ever done anything like this for me before,” she replied.
He furrowed his brows. “But you’re always talking about how you do things for your sister and family and friends,” he said.
She looked away. “I like doing that.” She frowned. “That makes it sound like no one ever wants to do things for me, which isn’t true. I guess it’s just hard for me toletother people do things for me. It makes me feel... bad. I don’t know why.”
“But it’s how people express their love for you,” he told her. “You should let them.”
“Well, thank you for cleaning up in here. And for this.” She held up the smoothie.
“Of course. After you finish, let’s get you cleaned up, as well.”
She glanced down, where there were dried splatters of smoothie all over her clothes and skin. “Right.”
“I’ll run you a bath,” he said.
Before she could protest, he left the kitchen, looking around the rest of her place as he went for the stairs. Motu followed after him, going to a little bed in the living room.
Her home was soher. It was neat and orderly, which was to have been expected, with a sleek and modern design; but there were homey elements as well: framed pictures, toys for Motu, mementos and trinkets.
He wanted to dissect every inch, to ask her about everything, but there would be time for that later. Right now, he went up the stairs and found her bedroom. In the attached bathroom, he ran a hot bath, the space quickly filling with steam. There was a bottle of bath salts and soap on the tub; both looked hardly used.
He squeezed some of the soap in as Emmeline entered behind him. “I got those ages ago,” she told him. “But I never have time for baths. And I love baths.”
“Well, you’ve got time now,” he said. “Come on.”
Her lips twitched. “Now you’re just trying to get my clothes off.”
He laughed, holding his hands up. “My intentions are pure, promise.”
Though he was surely having impure thoughts as she reached back to unzip her dress. He turned around, reaching for the door.
“Wait,” she said, voice quiet. “Stay.”
He stilled, his heart pounding. He didn’t trust himself to turn, so he stood with his back to her, listening to the sound of her clothes hitting the floor. Then, he heard the water splash as she entered the bath.
“Luke,” she said, just his name, and he couldn’t bear it.
He turned. She was submerged in the water with her back to him, most of which was covered with her dark hair, which looked like a cloak of black silk. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, and she glanced over her shoulder, as if nervous.
He didn’t know what to say, but he wanted to be there for her.
“Do you want... Can I wash your hair?” he asked, amending the statement. He had noticed that she rarely asked for anything, even when she wanted it.
She was so used to giving, but not used to receiving. So if he had asked “Do you want me to wash your hair?” she would never admit to wanting that. But if he asked, “Can I wash your hair?” it let her know that it wasn’t any trouble, that he wanted to.
She bit her bottom lip, thinking. Then, she nodded.
She reached over for the shampoo, silently handing it back to him. His pulse quickened. He had never shared such intimacy with anyone.
Crouching down beside the bath, he lathered the shampoo onto his hands, then worked it into her hair. She tilted her head back, releasing a long breath. He washed the shampoo from her hair with a rinse cup.
She closed her eyes and he saw her cheeks shine with tears. His heart twisted painfully. He didn’t know what to say; he didn’t think there was anything to say. So he continued washing her hair, hands gentle.
When he finished, she wiped at her eyes, then noticed black on her fingertips from where all her kajal and mascarahad smudged. “Can you give me a makeup wipe?” she asked. “They’re in the drawer.”
He did as requested, watching as she wiped around her eyes to get all the makeup off.
