“Do you want to sit somewhere dry?”I ask quietly.
He nods again, slower this time.
And when I guide him out of the showers, he follows.I lead him down the hallway slowly, afraid he’ll change his mind and bolt.Room 6 is empty.Clean.Dim light spills from the fixture above the mirror, barely enough to cast shadows.
I unlock the door and hold it open for him.
He steps inside first, towel still tightly wrapped around his shoulders, wet clothes clinging to his frame.I follow and close the door behind us.The softclickof it echoes louder than it should.
He doesn’t sit right away.Just stands there, looking around like he’s never been in this kind of space before.Like he’s used to doors being open.Exits always close.
I move to the bench along the wall and sit, giving him space.Letting him decide.
He finally lowers himself onto the sofa across from me.Legs wide, elbows on his knees.The towel slips a little, revealing the line of his collarbone.His shirt’s soaked through.I can see the shape of him underneath.
He doesn’t speak.So I do.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened.”
He nods.
“I just didn’t want you alone in that shower.”
Another pause.Then, quietly, “Thanks.”
It’s the first real word he’s given me.Not deflection.Not defense.Justthanks.
“I can go,” I offer.“If you want time.”
His eyes flick up to meet mine.“No,” he says.Then again, softer, “No.Don’t.”
Something like relief warms me, which is odd since I don’t know this man.I move closer, not touching, not prying.Just sitting in the half-light, letting the quiet settle around us.Letting him feel what it’s like not to be alone when things fall apart.
His breathing evens out slowly.His shoulders drop.The towel falls completely now, pooling behind him on the back of the couch.
Still, I don’t move.
His hand moves first, not toward me, but toward himself.Fingers pressing into the edge of his soaked shirt, peeling it up inch by inch.The fabric clings, reluctant, but he doesn’t rush.It’s not a performance.It’s a release, like he’s stripping away the bad energy that followed him in here.
When the shirt comes off, he drops it to the floor with a wet slap.
I see everything now—his chest, lean and tight with restraint, the faint trail of hair down his abdomen, a few old scars that don’t look like stories he’s ready to tell.
He doesn’t hide.He doesn’t speak.He just looks at me, breathing steady now, and says, “Can I sit with you?”
It hits harder than anything else.
“Yeah,” I murmur, quietly but with confidence.“Come here.”
He closes the space between us without hesitation.Not fast.Not slow.Justdecided.And when he’s close beside me, his thigh pressed warm against mine, I feel him exhale like he hasn’t taken a full breath all night.
I lift my arm, and he leans into it.
His skin is warm despite the wetness.His chest touches mine.Our heads tilt inward at the same time, instinctively.His nose brushes my cheek, lips grazing near my jaw.
He doesn’t kiss me, just lets his breath settle against my skin.But his fingers find mine and thread through them.And when he speaks again, it’s barely above a breath.
“Okay?”
