And I let it.
For a long while, I just drown.
Then, with a reluctant sigh, I reach for the soap bar.
If I could stay here for hours, I would.
But if the hot water doesn’t run out, then Samick will cut my time, and I don’t want to leave here even a bit dirty.
So I wash.
Thoroughly.
With a hand towel way too big for this job, I lather and scrub. No better smoothness than after a soapy cloth.
And I feel smooth.
And clean.
I run the soapy towel over my face, then let the water rinse the suds away.
Even just the sound of the shower is soothing, and if I keep my head under the stream, I don’t hear the hailstorm so much.
That’s still battering away outside.
The cold air nips at me around the warmth of the shower rain, but it doesn’t rush me.
I take my time, kneading and working the shampoo into my scalp, stroking and finger-combing it through the lengths of my hair.
I had a habit of this in the Before. Really working in the shampoo.
Mum taught me it’s the best way to let the fragrance get into the strands. Just give it time. So as it sits, I brush my teeth.
And finally, when I rinse it out, every other part of me is sparkling clean. I wash out my mouth, too, and gently set my toothbrush on the soap holder, careful to balance it so it doesn’t get infected by shower grubbiness.
It all washes over me.
The storm, the water, the echo of the shower room—and, for a while, I forget I’m not alone.
I forget Samick is here.
On the bench.
Waiting.
The chill in the air nips at me.
And it reminds me of him.
I tuck my chin to my shoulder—and look over the shower room at Samick.
My heart lurches.
Lounged on the bench, his back is slumped against the wall. A sculpted statue of indifference. His thumb brushes over the hilt of a knife holstered to his hip. A glass blade with speckles of black and gold. He almost looks bored. Uninterested, a picture of indifference. But his stare is lifted from beneath his lashes—
And those eyes burn.
They burn green.
