Every drop of water that runs down my skin feels like it’s rinsing away the fear, the dirt, the noise.
The cut on my hand is much smaller than I expected.It stopped bleeding sometime on the drive home, and Sawyer had cleaned it for me with the first-aid kit in the SUV.
Still, I washed it out again with antibiotic soap before getting in the shower.If I never see a gas station bathroom again, it’ll be too soon.
I lean my forehead against the tile wall and close my eyes.
It’s over.Roach’s gone.And I’m home.
Sawyer had things to discuss with the guys, and I told myself I’d wait for him to shower.But I couldn’t.
Not one more second with the smell of dirty gas station and gunpowder in my hair.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing under the spray—long after the suds have swirled down the drain and my fingertips have gone pink from the heat—when I hear it.
The click of the lock.
The slow turn of the knob.
And I know.
He’s here.
Something inside me loosens all at once.My lungs finally work again.
He doesn’t say a word as he steps in.I turn, watching him through the mist.
Sawyer’s movements are quiet, deliberate.
He’s changed into sweats, and he’s pushing them down his body.
His hair is still damp from what I assume was a quick rinse downstairs, but his eyes?They’re dark and storm-heavy when they find me.
He steps under the water beside me, and suddenly the world shrinks to the sound of it hitting tile.
I reach for the washcloth.I don’t even think—my hands move on their own.
A few pumps of his soap, the scent of cedar and something clean, and then I’m smoothing it over his skin.
He lets me.
Doesn’t speak.Doesn’t move.
Just stands there, breathing in slow, steady pulls as I wash him.
The rough planes of his shoulders.The curve of his neck.The strong arms that carried me away from hell itself.
My hands shake, but he doesn’t stop me.
This isn’t about need or want—it’s about something deeper.
I need to do this.To care for him.To make sure he’s real, whole, alive.
When I work the shampoo through his hair, his eyes close.
My throat tightens.
There’s soap, water, skin, and the hum of something too big for words.
