He doesn’t look back.“You always talk to the ones who don’t want to be seen?”
I step closer, close enough to feel the steam on my skin.“Only the ones who look like they’re trying too hard to disappear.”
That gets him.He moves under the spray just enough for me to see the line of his clenched jaw and then fully turns to face me, blinking through the water.His dark eyes lock on me with… not anger, not even annoyance or fear.
There’s something in his face.Somethingasking.
I take another step in.Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I’m not just a voice anymore.I’m a presence.
The air between us is thick with steam and something heavier, like a held breath that hasn’t found its way out yet.
He watches me, water cascading down his face, dark lashes clumped, lips parted slightly.His shirt clings to his chest, and the outline of him is sharp now.Vulnerable in a different way.Not exposed—stripped.
“What happened?”I ask.
He laughs once, short and bitter.“Don’t know you.”
“I don’t have to know you to see when someone’s running.”
He leans back against the tile, tilting his head toward the ceiling.Letting the water hit his throat, his mouth.His eyes stay closed.
“I didn’t come here for a conversation.”
“Then why did you?”
That makes him pause.He opens his eyes again, blinking slowly.
“I don’t know,” he says, voice rough now.“Habit.Desperation.Bad idea.”
I nod.“I’ve seen worse reasons.”
The silence stretches, both of us breathing too loudly.Then he says, without looking at me, “You’re not like the others who work here.”
“No.”
“You’re watching me.”
“Yes.”
He turns to me then, really turns.The water falls down his arms, his chest, soaking into the cotton clinging to his skin.There’s something hungry in his gaze, but not for sex.
Forrelief.For someone to stay.
I take one more step.Close enough now that if I reached out, I could press my hand to the center of his chest and feel his heartbeat beneath the damp fabric.He doesn’t flinch.Doesn’t move away.He says nothing.And neither do I.
We juststandthere until the water starts to cool.I don’t know what he needs from me, but if I give him space, maybe he’ll ask for it.
He’s shivering now, and I have a feeling it’s not from the cold, but whatever’s caught in his chest and can’t find its way out.His hands hang at his sides, soaked, clenched, useless.He turns the water off with a sudden twist—too fast, too sharp.The pipes groan in protest.Silence fills the space where the spray used to be.
And still, he doesn’t move.
I reach behind me and pull a towel off the hook.Stepping forward, I hold it out to him and wait.He watches me like he’s not sure I’m real.Then he nods once, slowly, silent words spoken loudly.
I drape it over his shoulders.My hands linger just long enough to let him feel they’re not there to take anything, just to cover him.To warm him.Anchor him.
He closes his eyes, and I don’t say a word.
He doesn’t have to explain why he came here like that.Why his body looks like it’s carrying too many stories, and none of them end well.I’ve seen the shape of grief before.I’ve worn it.It doesn’t need a name tonight.
