Still in the doorway, Dante waits.
"D," Cole says. Quiet. "Come here."
Dante strips. Efficient. The black shirt, the jeans, each piece placed on the counter with the precision he brings to everything. Naked, he stands at the edge of the tub. The tattoos on his chest and arms visible in the bathroom light. The piercings catching the overhead, six silver barbells in a row.
He's looking at me. His jaw tight. His eyes dark.
My hand extends over the edge of the tub. Palm up.
He takes it. Steps in. The water rises again, close to the rim now, three bodies in a bathtub built for one and a half. He sits facing us. His legs tangled with ours under the water. My feet against his thighs. His knees bent, crowding the porcelain.
"This bathtub is too small," he says.
"It's fine. You're too large."
"I'm proportional."
"You're enormous. Cole, tell him he's enormous."
"You're enormous, D."
"Thank you. Both of you. Very helpful."
The banter is thin, stretched over the anger neither of us is pretending away.
The water shifts between us. Small waves from three bodies finding their configuration. Cole's arms around my waist from behind. My feet against Dante's thighs. Dante's hands resting on my ankles under the water, his thumbs tracing circles on the bone.
"I'm still angry," I say.
Dante's thumbs pause. Resume.
"I know," he says.
"The anger is going to stay for a while. It doesn't go away because I'm sitting in a bathtub with you."
"I know."
"Hear me when I say the anger and this can exist in the same room. I can be furious at what you did and still want you here. Both things are real. If you need one to end before the other starts, if you need me to finish being angry before I can want you, then get out of the tub."
"I'm in the tub."
"Then stay in the tub."
"I'm staying."
Cole's arms tighten around my waist. His mouth presses against my shoulder. One kiss. Soft. The kind that asks nothing.
The steam thins. The water temperature drops by degrees, still warm, but the edge is gone. The almost-too-much settles into something my body can hold.
"Wash my hair," I say. To Dante.
His hands stay on my ankles. I can see him processing it, what it means, what it costs me to ask, what it costs him to be asked.
"Okay," he says.
Dante shifts in the tub. Water spills over the rim, a small cascade onto the tile that none of us acknowledges. He moves closer, knees braced against the porcelain on either side of my legs. His hand reaches for the shampoo on the ledge. He pours it into his palm. Lavender fills the bathroom, the brand I've used since college, the scent that lives in the pillows, the towels, the spare room sheets that became our sheets.
His fingers slide into my hair from the front. At the temples first. Both hands, working the shampoo back through the strands in deliberate motions. His fingertips against my scalp. The pressure firm and even.
