Her blue eyes flicker. “Like what?”
“Like coming home to someone. Sharing the quiet.”
Jane’s throat bobs as she swallows. “You could share the quiet with someone else. Someone calm.” Her voice is tiny.
I shake my head. “Calm doesn’t challenge me. Calm doesn’t make me feel.”
Her gaze darts to my mouth, then back up to my eyes.
I inhale to steady myself. “You make me feel. That’s why I’m out of my depth.”
Jane’s lips part, but no words come out. She looks like she’s on the verge of believing me, yet terrified to.
I squeeze her hands gently. “You’re shivering, and you’re covered in cow shit. As funny as this might seem later, it’s not funny right now.”
Her nose wrinkles. “I’m disgusting.”
“You’re human,” I correct. “And you’re cold.”
“I didn’t mean to?—”
“I know. Can I help?”
Jane’s eyes flash. “I can do it myself.”
I nod but hold her gaze firmly. “Okay, but you don’t have to.”
The words land like a door opening—quiet and unhurried, with no pressure to walk through.
Jane’s shoulders sag slightly, as if she just lost a fight she didn’t know she was in.
“Fine,” she mutters. “But don’t?—”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
My chest loosens. “I won’t.”
I stand, turn on the tap. Steam rises as I fill the tub enough to warm the air. Jane watches me, her eyes wary, as I grab a towel from the rack and set it within reach, then crouch down again.
“Boots first,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “You’re not taking my boots off.”
“I’d like to take your boots off because you’re shaking, and you can barely unclench your hands,” I say calmly. “Is that okay?”
Jane opens her mouth to argue. I just look at her.
After a few seconds, she mutters, “If you make a joke about Cinderella, I’ll drown you.”
I almost smile. “That would be inconvenient for both of us.”
Gripping the heel of her boot, I tug gently. It’s stuck from the dried muck.
Jane’s face flushes. “Oh, my god.”
“It’s just a boot, not a confession.”
