"First, let’s get rid of the t-shirt,” he said.
She worked her good arm up through the sleeve opening and he pulled it over her head and gently down over her bandaged hand.
“Now, give me your hand," he said.
She held out her bandaged right hand, and Dimitri wrapped it carefully in the plastic, sealing the edges around her wrist and along her forearm so that no water could seep through to the gauze and splints beneath. His fingers barely grazed the bandage, but even that faint pressure made the throbbing ratchet up a notch. She bit the inside of her cheek.
"Too tight?" he asked.
"No. It's good."
Dimitri turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam began to curl behind the curtain. He stripped down quickly and stepped into the shower with her, guiding her under the spray.
Under different circumstances, being naked with Dimitri in a small shower with warm water running over both of them would have been the start of something, but not today.
She was aware of his body, because how could she not be? The sculpted lines of him, the new definition in his arms and chest, the warm skin against hers where their bodies brushed in the tight space. The attraction was there, a low hum beneath her skin, familiar and insistent, but it couldn't take root.
Her body was too depleted, too wrung out, too consumed by the pulses of pain in her hand to respond to anything beyond the simple comfort of warmth and familiar touch.
Dimitri was reacting in the same way, just not for the same reasons.
He was aware of her state, of her pain, and that part of him that usually responded to her nude body with obvious excitement stayed inert. His movements as he lathered soap between his hands were gentle, almost reverent, but there was nothing sexual in the way he washed her shoulders, her back, the curves of her body. He moved with care, focused and mindful of where she hurt.
He washed her legs without hesitation, his hands passing over the ridged and uneven skin the way they always did, as if her scars were just another part of her, no more remarkable than her elbows or her knees.
She felt cherished in a way that went beyond desire or attraction, and she hated that she couldn't give him anything in return.
You're an idiot. He's not keeping score.
But the feeling persisted, the sense of being limited, diminished, reduced to dependency, needing help with the most basic things like brushing her teeth, washing her body, and getting dressed.
She'd spent her whole life fighting against that reduction. Against pity, against helplessness, against the assumption that her damaged legs made her less than whole.
Dimitri rinsed the soap from her hair, keeping the water out of her face, and turned off the shower. He stepped out first, grabbed the larger towel, and wrapped it around her before reaching for the smaller one. After drying her with the same unhurried patience, he helped her get dressed in a loose t-shirt and cotton pants with an elastic waistband.
Nothing with buttons. Nothing that required dexterity.
Smart man.
He dressed himself quickly and ran his hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face. The damp strands caught the light, and she noticed again how much thicker and shinier his hair had become, even though it had been lovely before. Now he could pose for a shampoo commercial with that hair.
"Petrov brought our breakfast up," he said. "It's out in the hallway."
The two trays were indeed sitting on the salvaged dresser, covered in plastic wrap, or what remained of it after Dimitri had commandeered part of it for her hand. Two plates of eggs and toast, two cups.
Dimitri positioned the chair from their room on one side of the dresser and went to fetch a second one from Petrov's room. When they were seated across from each other, the scarred dresser between them serving as a dining table, he peeled the remaining plastic off the plates.
"You know," he said, surveying the setup with a look of exaggerated satisfaction, "this dresser is proving to be the most versatile piece of furniture we salvaged from that pile of junk. Breakfast bar, dining table, and a storage unit. It was supposed to be a restoration project, and instead it became a functioning kitchen."
She managed a smile. "We don't have a kitchen."
"We have a dresser in a hallway that serves food. Close enough." He picked up his fork and pointed it at her. "I should go back to the debris pile and see if I can find a proper table. Maybe some chairs that match."
"Matching chairs. You dream big."
"I'm a visionary."
He was trying to make her smile, and it was working. She loved him for it because the alternative was thinking about crushed fingers and dead immortals.
