More intimate.
He steps into the tub slowly, wincing as the hot water meets his skin. But once he's submerged to the shoulders, something in him unwinds. His eyes close. His head tips back against the rim.
"God," he breathes. "I forgot what this feels like."
I kneel beside the tub, roll up my sleeves. There's a cloth on the edge, a bar of soap that smells like pine and cedar. I wet the cloth, work up a lather, and start to clean him.
He tenses at first. But I keep my movements slow, predictable, and gradually he relaxes into it.
I wash his arms, careful around the bandaged wrists. His shoulders, knotted with tension that I work at until the muscles soften. His chest, tracing the lines of his ribs, avoiding the bruised places.
"Turn," I say, and he does, presenting his back.
More scars here. Old ones, faded to silver. Newer ones, still pink at the edges. Violence I didn't inflict but that I now feel responsible for somehow.
"Jace." His voice is rough.
"Yes?"
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because you needed it."
"That's not an answer."
I pause, cloth resting against the small of his back.
"I don't have a better one," I admit. "When I see you hurting, something in me wants to fix it. Not because it serves a purpose. Not because it advances an objective. Just because the idea of you suffering is..."
"Unacceptable?"
"Intolerable."
He turns his head, looks at me over his shoulder. Water drips from his hair, runs down his jaw.
"That sounds a lot like caring," he says.
"Maybe it is."
"You said you didn't know how to care."
"I didn't." I set down the cloth, rest my hand on his shoulder. "You're teaching me."
His breath catches. For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then he reaches up, covers my hand with his, and squeezes.
"Stay with me tonight," he says. "In the bed. Not for—I'm not ready for—but I need you close. I need to wake up and know you're there."
"I'll be there," I say. "I'm not going anywhere."
The water cools eventually.
I help him out of the tub, wrap him in a towel that's warmer than anything he's touched in days. He leans against me while I dry him, trusting me with his weight in a way that makes something shift in my chest.
I find clothes in the dresser. Soft cotton, too big for him, but clean and warm. I help him into them, button the shirt when his fingers fumble, smooth the fabric over his shoulders.
"You're good at this," he murmurs.
