He came while doing it.
He could do the same to you.
The laugh dies in my throat. Survival instinct floods through me, cold and clarifying. I know this feeling. I've written this feeling a hundred times—the moment when a character realizes they're in actual danger and their body takes over, does what needs to be done to stay alive.
"Please answer me. I'm worried."
I look at him.
Really look. For the first time since the maze.
His eyes are searching my face, and there's something in them that might be genuine concern. Or maybe just calculation. How big of a threat am I? How damaged? Beyond repair? Does he need to kill me too to keep himself safe?
These questions form and reform on repeat as I nod my head. "Yes," I say. My voice sounds distant. Mechanical. "I'm OK."
His shoulders relax slightly.
"Thank you," I add, because that's what you say, because that's what keeps you safe. "For saving me. He was going to?—"
My voice catches.
He was going to do terrible things to you.
And then this man did terrible things to him.
"He hurt me," I finish. "You stopped him."
The unmasked man's hand cups my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone, catching something wet.
Tears. When did I start crying?
"I'll always stop them," he says. "Anyone who tries to hurt you. I'll always stop them."
He leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead. Soft. Careful. Like I'm something fragile that might shatter.
Then my cheeks. One, then the other. Kissing away the tears I can't seem to control.
His mouth finds mine and the kiss is?—
Tender.
That's the word. Not hungry. Not demanding. Just gentle pressure, his lips warm against mine, asking nothing.
I cry harder.
He pulls back and resumes washing me. Methodical. Thorough. The cloth moves down my legs, between my toes,back up again. He tips my head back to rinse my hair, supporting my neck with one hand.
None of it is sexual.
All of it is careful.
When he lifts me from the tub, I don't resist. He wraps me in a towel so soft it feels like being swaddled in clouds, patting me dry with the same meticulous attention he gave to washing me.
"Arms up."
I raise them. He slides a white button-down shirt over my head—his shirt, I realize, recognizing the smell of him on the fabric. Then white boxer shorts that pool around my hips until he helps me fold the waistband over. Once. Twice. Three times before they'll stay up.
"Sit."
