The word is strange coming from him.
Gentle.
Grounded.
He stands and disappears down a hallway.
Comes back with a towel the size of a blanket and one worn gray football T-shirt soft enough to look ancient.
He sets both in my lap.
“You need out of those wet clothes.”
I look at him.
He’s wringing rainwater out of the hem of his own shirt onto the stone floor like he doesn’t even notice he’s still soaked through.
“I’m not?—”
“I know.” His voice stays low. Easy. “I’m not making it weird.”
That lands.
Because suddenly I know he won’t.
No angle.
No opportunism.
No finally got you alone male nonsense.
Just warmth.
Dry clothes.
A safe room.
He grabs another towel, then points toward the hallway.
“Bathroom’s there if you want privacy. Or I can turn around and pretend I’ve never seen a wet hoodie in my life.”
That almost gets me too.
My throat aches around it.
“I can do it.”
“I know you can.”
A beat.
“Still don’t have to.”
He turns before I answer and walks to the fireplace, broad back to me, hands braced on the mantle, head tipped slightly down to give me every inch of dignity I still have left.
My fingers shake as I peel off the soaked hoodie.
Then the shirt beneath it, cold fabric dragging over skin.
