Something flashes through his face. Rage, sharp and contained.
“I smell like dirt,” I say.
“That’s fixable.”
The corner of his mouth moves just slightly. Not quite a smile. Something close.
“You want to shower?” he asks.
I nod too fast. “Is that okay?”
“It’s your call,” he says. “Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll leave clothes outside the door. Clean towel’s already in there.”
He watches me for a second. “You good on your feet? Or you want a hand?”
“I’ve got it,” I say.
I pull the blanket tighter around me and rise slowly, both hands clutching the edges. It’s heavy and awkward, but I’m not letting go. My hoodie’s cut. My jeans are gone. This blanket is all I have.
I stumble a little as I straighten. He steps in close anyway, one hand bracing gently at my upper arm.
Warm. Steady. Solid.
Even that small touch sparks something low in my stomach. My body notices him. Even now. Even like this.
It makes me feel disloyal to my own fear.
The bathroom’s clean. I step inside and turn the lock, then glance up at the mirror.
Blonde hair tangled. Face smudged with dirt. Eyes too wide.
I don’t look like myself. I barely recognize the girl staring back.
I strip out and step under the hot water.
The first touch of heat makes me gasp.
It stings. It soaks in. It hurts and helps at the same time.
I stand there longer than I should, letting the water run over bruises and scrapes.
I don’t cry.
I just breathe.
When I turn the water off, there’s a folded stack of clothes outside the door like he promised. Sweatpants. A long sleeve shirt that smells like detergent and something faintly woodsy.
I put them on.
They hang a little loose, but they’re warm.
When I step back into the living room, he’s at the table in the kitchen area, a small kit open in front of him.
He looks up.
Something in his eyes shifts.
Relief. Quiet and real.
