When he hit a stubborn tangle, he didn’t yank.
He worked through it patiently.
Slowly untangling each strand as if restoring something precious.
“Your hair is ruined right now,” he murmured quietly.
“But it will grow back.”
His voice was reassuring.
Then he helped me step into the tub.
The moment my skin submerged in the hot water—
I gasped.
The heat burned against my open scrapes and bruises.
Every cut screamed.
Every injured muscle protested.
I instinctively tried to pull back.
Ruslan’s hands steadied my shoulders.
“Stay,” he whispered.
“Let it clean you.”
The sting slowly turned into something else.
Relief. Deep.
Bone-melting relief.
It was like the water was pulling poison out of my body.
Pulling away dirt.
Pulling away memory.
Ruslan rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt.
He picked up the bar of unscented soap.
My favorite.
The one he always kept stocked because he knew strong perfumes made my skin react.
He dipped a cloth into the water and began.
He started with my face.
Wiping away dried blood.
Erasing streaks of tears.
