Not my name, yet my name.
Then his knees hit the ground, and I’m moving faster than I ever have in my life. I cross the room, dropping in front of him, sliding my hand under his elbow. His skin is ice cold, clammy under my touch.
“Baby,” I whisper as I take him in. His eyes stay fixed on the ground. I stand, taking him with me. I need to take care of him,make sure he’s not hurt. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t even blink, just lets me support his weight and steer him down the hall.
He feels unsteady, like if I let go, he’ll drop again. I hold tighter, my body doing the work his isn’t able to.
The bathroom light is harsh against the scene of him. Ashen skin, trembling muscles, dirt clinging in streaks and smudges. I keep my face calm. If he sees the panic in me, it will only make it worse. I turn the shower on, steam rising fast. The hiss of water fills the silence between us. He stands there staring at nothing, arms slack, eyes glassed over.
I want to ask. I want to shake answers out of him, demand to know what happened, why he looks like this. But I keep the words in. I know he can’t give them right now. I think I know where he went. I know where he goes on bad days. And the thought causes my stomach to drop further.
All I need is to get him warm. Get him clean. Get him breathing like he’s supposed to. Then we can focus on the rest.
I step in front of him and work at his hoodie. It’s heavy with water, fabric clinging to his skin. I peel it over his head carefully. He doesn’t lift his arms until I guide them, and even then, it’s sluggish, like his body is exhausted beyond everything.
The shirt underneath is plastered to his body. I have to work each sleeve inch by inch, sliding the fabric off. His skin is so cold everywhere I touch it. My stomach twists, but I keep my face neutral. I don’t want him to see the fear I’m feeling, not when he’s barely holding himself together.
His shorts sag with weight. I kneel to ease them down with his briefs, fabric squelching as it peels from his thighs. His socks come last, dripping wet against my palms. I strip them away and set them aside.
Then he’s bare, goosebumps rising on his arms and chest. His teeth chatter so loudly, I can hear it above the water running. Hislips tremble. I cup his shoulder gently and steer him toward the shower, lowering the temperature so it doesn’t shock him.
The water is just warm, pouring over his hair, his face, down his chest. He flinches at first, but then he sags forward, letting it take him. His shoulders drop.
I take the washcloth, work up a lather, and begin to wash him. I’m still dressed, water soaking into my clothes, but I don’t care.
I start with his arms first. Soap slides over his skin, bubbles cutting through grime. His muscles twitch under my touch, tiny shudders he can’t control. I rinse the soap away, lift his wrist, and press a kiss there, light as air.
I’m glad you’re here.
Shoulders next. I smooth soap over the curve of muscle, into the line of his collarbone. My thumbs brush faint knots where he’s tense. I rinse, lean in, kiss the slope of his shoulder as he exhales.
I’m glad you came back.
His chest. I work carefully, creating a lather across ribs that still rise and fall erratically. My hand lingers over his heart. I rinse the soap away, bend down, and press a kiss just above his sternum.
My heart. My love.
His back. I sweep the washcloth down the length of it, suds turning brown where dirt runs off. I trace the dip of his spine, following the path of water down. A kiss between his shoulder blades.
I’ve got you.
His legs. Mud covers his calves, crusted behind his knees. I kneel behind him, scrub gently, and rinse the water clean. Press a kiss to the inside of his knee. He trembles.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Last, his hands. His fingers are stiff, knuckles caked with mud and covered in small cuts. I wash each one slowly, letting himfeel the reverence in my touch. Soap under his nails, between each finger. His hands shake in mine, but he doesn’t pull away. I rinse them clean and press a kiss to each knuckle.
Please don’t leave me. Please.
Not once does he meet my eyes. Not once does he speak again. But he lets me care for him. Every kiss is the same—meaningful, loving, wordless. A language only I’m speaking and—hopefully—he’s hearing.
When the water finally runs clear, I shut it off. The silence that follows is thick, only thedrip, drip, dripof water from his hair.
I wrap him in a large towel, soft and thick, cocooning him. The cotton swallows him whole. I pat him dry gently. His hair sticks to his face in damp tufts. I smooth them back and press a kiss to his temple. He lets out a trembling breath.
Still here.
Through it all, my own body burns with things I don’t say. Fear that consumes me. Relief so intense it hurts. Want that goes deeper than heat. I want him whole. I want him safe. If all I can do is wash him clean, kiss life back into him piece by piece, then that’s what I’ll do.
