Confused, my hands latch around the back of his neck, watching my room whizz by with his long-legged stride out into the hallway. I’d be self-conscious about everyone seeing me in my bra if he wasn’t blocking my torso while turning into the bathroom.
The shower faucet is running on full blast, jetting into the vat of water and rumbling the floor, and a candle’s lit on the sink, the flame dancing along the walls and calming the room, emanating a subtle scent of vanilla beneath the cheap wax.
“What’s this for?” I ask quietly.
Setting me down on my feet near the tub, his fingers tenderly trace up my back, the chill of his touch straightening my spine. He smiles, stitching our eyes together while finding the clasp of my bra. “You.”
“Yeah… I figured, but… why?”
His eyes thin with concentration, his lips tensing and his fingertips tapping disorderly to find the right motion needed to unclasp my bra. “Because I care about you.” His mouth twists the other way, his brows falling lower the longer he takes fumbling to release the hooks.
I try to control my grin, biting the inside of my bottom lip, my cheeks tightening. “Do you need help?”
“No, I’m gonna do this… All by myself,” he says under his breath, still concentrating.
His patience blows to smoke. He’s swiftly caging my ribs and forcing me around. I spin in my socks, facing the tub and getting stopped abruptly by his hand on my waist, the other already attacking the clasp.
“What is going on back here?” he seethes.
It doesn’t feel right to laugh, considering how mean I was to him just a few minutes ago, so I shelter the amusement in my chest. I know I cry a lot. Sometimes for no reason at all. But snapping on him just for him to turn around and do something sweet for me is biting at my eyes.
Blinking through the sting, the clasp releases the band around my ribs, the light weight of my boobs dropping with the slack in the straps.
I go to turn around to say I’m sorry again, but his tender touch is drawing up my shoulder blades, effortlessly wedging his fingers beneath the straps and teasing them down.
My escalating pulse drowns me in the running faucet, that same pressure of being underwater pressing against my ears.
He’s so quiet. It’s daunting when he’s quiet.
Insecure thoughts fly through my mind. Like, what if he’s judging the slight curve in my spine? Or what if I have split ends shedding over his hands?
It makes me shift, manifesting random itchy spots along my back and scalp. Those things become small to me as my bra comes off my body, the performative flame reflecting off the water and swathing across my nipples.
He steps away to set my bra on the counter, replacing his body heat with a light breeze against my backside. He could’ve just dropped it. But he didn’t.
The notion that he pays attention to me, understands that tiny things like my bra or underwear on the floor tightens threads of angst through my veins, has me looking back to the rumbling tub with a grin.
It’s almost full, so I grab our shower screwdriver and lean over the tub, jamming the flathead into the sweet spot to twist the water off.
“Come sit,” he hums.
Setting the screwdriver down on the edge of the tub, I turn to him sitting on the toilet, his hands politely beckoning me.
As much as I’d love to shy away from how gentle he’s being with me right now, my body is moving toward his comfort and I’m taking a seat sideways on his lap.
The orange glow of the flame is slashed across his eyes, richening the golden mahogany and adding a twinkle.
He combs his fingers through my hair, wearing a content, lazy grin, his soft fingertips raking down the back of my neck. He doesn’t say anything. Just lightly tucks my hair around my ear and smooths it down my shoulder blades, then carefully brings each of my legs up to slip my socks off.
Waiting for him to finish rolling them into each other, another apology weighs on my chest as I stare at the water, feeling him stretch over to the side to set my socks on the sink.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him again.
Straightening up against me, he brings his palms to my thighs and places a languid kiss on my shoulder. “Don’t ever be sorry for saying how you feel.” He uses that slow, quiet, rusty voice that sneaks into my spine, dispensing a drip of dopamine.
“But I don’t know if that’s how I feel.” I look at him, my fingers twitching on my lap. “I feel it sometimes. But…”
“It’s okay,” he whispers, glancing around the bathroom. “This isn’t great. And it’s not forever. But it’s what we have right now.”
