Spence rinsed all the soap he’d put onto her, and then took his time rinsing the conditioner, his fingers gentle against her scalp. When he finished, he handed her the shower unit, and then held her when she stood and propped her left leg on the stool. She cleaned her crotch first, then her butt crack and asshole, and finally rinsed it all, with a final rinse of her shoulders and front, another of her face.
She turned the water off, and Spence took the handheld unit from her, settled it back into place, and then wrapped a towel around her body, rolling it down and tucking it just above her boobs so it stayed.
“If you’ll sit back on the stool and lean over, we can wrap your hair.”
She wanted to argue that she could bend over, but she wasn’t terribly steady, so she sat and leaned over.
He walked her to the bedroom chair with his arm around her waist. It was already pulled out from the wall so he could stand behind it, and he blow-dried her hair, working it in sections, drying and brushing like a pro. The air was warm, and the motions almost meditative.
“How would you like it?” he asked when he turned the blow-dryer off. “Braid? Ponytail? Down?”
Emmy realized he’d happily do whatever she told him to, even if it was an order — and that he’d probably be happier with an order. The thought made something warm unfurl in her chest, but she wasn’t in a place for orders just yet, so she told him, “Oh, I’d love a braid, so it’ll stay tidy longer. A French braid if you know how, but if you don’t it’s fine, a regular braid will be great.”
“French braid it is, then.”
His hands were already moving, sectioning her hair, fingers weaving the strands together with the same patient precision he’d shown washing it.
“Okay,” he said once he’d secured the second braid. “Time to get some clothes on you and then get you back into bed.” Rhea had sent several items of clothing down, and he walked to the stack. “Anything in particular you want to wear?”
“Just a t-shirt and joggers, please. I don’t care which.”
She put the shirt on, then took the towel off and stepped into her underwear and the joggers while she was sitting, pulling them up as she stood.
He walked her to the bed, and she told him, “I feel so much better. Like a new person. Thank you so much for helping me.”
His smile was soft, genuine. “Anytime. Literally anytime.”
The shower had exhausted her, and she fell asleep before she’d watched another five minutes of Buffy.
When she woke, Spence was right beside her, working on a laptop, which he set aside as soon as she began moving.
“Hungry? I’m supposed to let the cafeteria know when you wake, so they can send dinner down. Zander too, since he wants to join us.”
“I am, yes, but Zander can’t eat with us.”
“Still wants to sit with us,” he said, busily texting on his phone.
Zander arrived with dinner about ten minutes later, and told her, “I come bearing baked chicken with gentle but savory herbs, shredded carrots, and white rice, all cooked in chicken broth.”
Her stomach actually growled, and she smiled happily. It was so much better to be hungry, rather than the smell of food making her want to puke.
Spence had set the small table in the sitting room — two place settings, and an empty wineglass in front of the third.
“I usually drink red wine,” Zander said, “but in honor of your meal, which calls for white, I believe I’ll go for a sauvignon blanc.”
Spence helped Emmy to her chair even though she was fine to walk right after resting, but she didn’t argue. She watched him plate their food, and then told him, “This smells amazing,” while she forked her first careful bite.
The chicken was tender, perfectly seasoned, and her stomach accepted it without complaint.
“The recipe comes from the nurse,” Spence said. “Specially designed for recovering sensitive stomachs.”
It was delicious, and only barely tasted like what Emmy imagined hospital food was like, but… “Is everyone having to eat this?”
“I have a little extra pull with the cafeteria,” Zander said. “They’re making bland food for those recovering, while everyone else is eating lasagna, which Spence has already gorged on.”
Spence snorted. “You mean you ordered the head cook to follow the nurse’s recipe to the letter without adding anything the nurse didn’t personally approve of.”
Zander smiled. “Guilty as charged.”
