Footsteps approach the bathroom door, and the hinges creak as Gabriel pushes it open, filling thedoorway with his broad shoulders. The already small space shrinks to suffocating proportions with his presence, and my muscles lock, caught between flight and fight with nowhere to go.
“Did you kill someone tonight?”
I don’t bother denying it as the evidence washes down my drain in pink spirals. “He came at me with a taser in the alley.”
“Did you clean it up?” he asks without judgment. “Or should I send someone to wipe the scene?”
“Body’s already gone.”
“Good.” Gabriel steps inside, closing us both in this tight space. The air thickens with steam as I keep my attention fixed on my hands, scrubbing until my skin turns angry red beneath the rusty stains.
My gaze flicks to the medicine cabinet where a fresh pack of razors waits, tucked behind bottles of aspirin and band-aids. The blade calls to me with the promise of clarity, of pain I can control instead of letting the panic control me.
Gabriel tracks the movement, and without comment, he shifts his position, placing his body between me and the cabinet.
I turn off the faucet with an angry twist, water dripping from my clean but reddened hands, eachdrop hitting the porcelain sink with a soft plink. The steam from the shower curls through the small room, condensing on the mirror until my reflection blurs into an unrecognizable smear of color and shape.
“Move,” I order. “I need a shower.”
Gabriel doesn’t budge. “You’re in shock.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your hands are shaking. Your pupils are dilated.” He counts off my symptoms like he’s reading a medical chart. “And you’re still breathing too fast.”
The shower continues to run, water pounding the tile and filling the room with a white noise that can’t drown out the thoughts racing through my mind.
“I need to shower.”
Gabriel studies me for a long moment. “Go ahead. I’ll wait right here.”
The thought of stripping in front of him sends a fresh wave of panic through my system. Not because of modesty. He’s already seen every inch of my body. But because of the vulnerability it demands. Because of the scars on my thighs that tell stories I’ve never shared. Because I can’t scrub away the memories rising to the surface.
“Get out.” I grip the vanity to stop my hands from shaking.
“No.” A simple refusal, delivered without heat.
The adrenaline that’s kept me upright for hours begins to ebb, leaving my limbs heavy and my mind foggy. The edges of the room soften, sounds muffling as exhaustion crashes over me in waves.
“I’ll turn around,” Gabriel offers, gentler than before. “But I’m not leaving this room.”
He reaches past me to grab the shaving razor from the cup on the sink before he turns toward the door, his back to me and the shower. His shoulders rise and fall with steady breaths, a contrast to my own uneven breathing.
Movements stiff and uncoordinated, I strip and drop my clothes to the floor. When I step under the spray, the hot water burns my skin, but I welcome the pain, needing it to stay present.
Blood I missed earlier swirls from my hairline. The water runs clear within minutes, all evidence of death circling the drain at my feet. If only memories could be washed away with such ease.
When I turn off the shower, the silence rushes back.
Gabriel remains where I left him, facing the door, respecting what little privacy he’s allowed me while refusing to grant the solitude that might destroy me.
I grab the towel hanging on the hook, the motion pulling at muscles stiff with tension.
As I wrap it around my hips, Gabriel speaks to the door. “The man who attacked you. Was it related to the envelope?”
My fingers clench around the damp fabric. “Maybe. Probably.”
“What was he after?”
