I work it off, careful not to jostle her, then do the same with the other. Her damp, cold socks are next. Jane’s toes curl against the tub. I keep my hands businesslike and controlled, not because I don’t feel the intimacy, but because I do.
This is not the time for heat. This is the time for care.
The smell intensifies as I help her shrug out of her coat.
Jane winces. “Kill me.”
“No,” I say simply.
She meets my gaze, startled.
I don’t soften it. “Not happenin’.”
Something in her eyes shifts, as if she heard a promise.
I peel off her cardigan next. Underneath, her shirt is also muck-streaked, but I can see the edge of something soft and blue beneath that matches the effort in her hair, the careful makeup now smudged with tears. She dressed up. For me. Then the universe threw shit at her.
My anger flares again, not at her, but at every person who ever made her feel she had to perform to be worth loving.
I pause at her shirt. “Can you stand? You tell me what you need.”
Jane nods stiffly. She takes my hands when I offer them, and I pull her up, steadying her as she wobbles slightly. She’s lighter than she should be for someone who takes up so much space. That thought makes my chest ache again.
“Turn for me?” I say softly.
Jane turns her back to me. I help her out of the shirt carefully, my fingers brushing her skin at her waist. She shivers, this time from contact, not cold.
I stop immediately. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Her voice is breathy.
I don’t push. I just move slower.
The skirt comes next. I peel it down carefully. Jane’s cheeks flush, but she doesn’t fight me. Pride is still there, but the fight has drained out of her.
When she’s down to her panties and bra, she wraps her arms around herself. “I can do the rest.”
I nod. “Okay.”
I step back and turn toward the sink, giving her space while she strips off her underwear.
The bathroom is warm now, steam curling up.
When she speaks again, her voice is small. “Can you?—”
I turn halfway. “Yeah?”
“Can you stay?”
Not look. Not touch.Just stay.
I know what it costs her to ask. I’ve watched her fight for independence, push back against being cared for, and refuse help she desperately needs. And now she’s asking me to stay—not because she can’t do this alone, but because she doesn’t want to.
That breaks something in me and puts it back together at the same time.
“I’m here,” I say quietly.
I keep my back turned while she climbs into the tub, pulling the curtain closed most of the way like a fragile boundary.
