I grab a clean washcloth and soap and set them on the edge. Then I sit on the closed toilet lid, facing the door, not the tub, like I’m a guard posted outside a perimeter.
A long minute passes before Jane speaks, her voice muffled. “Do you hate me?”
The question hits me like a bullet. I turn my head slightly, not enough to see, but enough that she’ll know I'm listening.
“No,” I say immediately.
“Are you… disappointed?” Her voice cracks. “Because I’m not what you planned.”
I exhale slowly. “Jane. I’m not disappointed.”
Her laugh is soft and bitter. “Then why did you say it?”
I run a hand over my face. “Because I was talking about myplans.My fantasies. The version of my life that felt safe.”
Jane goes quiet.
“You’re not safe,” I say honestly.
She makes a small sound. “Thanks.”
I glance toward the curtain, my jaw tight. “Not safe because you’re wrong. Not safe because you’re right.”
Jane’s breathing shifts.
“You walk into a room, and you fill it,” I say. “You make people adjust around you. You make me adjust. And I don’t do adjustment well.”
A pause.
“I don’t want to ruin your peace.”
I stand slowly, move to the tub, and stop at the edge where she can’t see my face unless she peeks.
“You don’t ruin it,” I say. “You add to it.”
“I don’t know how to believe that.”
I swallow hard. “I’ll show you.” The words come out before I can think. A promise.
The silence stretches.
After a moment, the water curtain shifts, and Jane’s hand emerges, trembling slightly.
I take it and help her out of the tub, wrapping her in a towel. I don’t linger or let my gaze wander. Not because I’m not aware of her nakedness. I am, but tenderness is the point right now, not hunger.
Jane shivers as I rub the towel over her hair, getting it as dry as I can. Her eyes are heavy. Exhaustion is finally winning.
“Come on,” I say. “Fire.”
Guiding her down the hall and into the living room, I settle her on the couch near the hearth. I quickly grab one of my shirts from the bedroom and hand it to her, turning my back while she pulls it on to add more wood to the fire. I watch the flames jump higher, sending heat blooming into the room.
When I turn back, Jane is sitting curled inward, my shirt drowning her. Her hair is damp, and her face is bare of makeup now. She looks younger. Softer. More like herself.
And the fact that she tried to erase that softness earlier makes anger flare under my ribs at whoever taught her she had to trade pieces of herself to be loved.
I sit on the floor in front of her, close enough that she can feel me but not touching.
“Say it again,” she whispers.
