Page 105 of My Brother’s Best Friends Entanglement

“I can walk, I promise,” she mutters into my collar, but no part of her body agrees. I carry her through the front door and down the hall without another word from either of us.

She'd barely spoken in the car. Every few minutes I'd ask if she was okay, if she needed anything. She'd answer in as few words as she could. Eventually I’d stopped asking and just drove, one hand finding hers in the space between, squeezing it now and then and holding my breath until she squeezed back.

I kick her bedroom door open, letting it sink in for just a moment how it feels completely normal to be carrying her toward what is actually my bed. I shake off the feeling and lay her down gently.

“Do you need anything?” I whisper.

“Mm.” Her eyes are already half shut. “A bath. I fell on the floor of your bar and I can only imagine what's currently living in my hair.”

It's the most she's said since the bar, and it gets a ghost of a smile out of me. “Don't tell Zachary you said that. He takes an obscene amount of pride in how clean his bars are.”

“I won't tell if you don't.”

“It'll be our little secret.” A small, shared thing. I can't help feeling the warmth of it in the space between us. Then I think about the other secret the two of us are keeping — the one that isn't sweet at all, the one I've been carrying around for six years — and the smile fades.

I grab the blanket off the bed and pull it around her shoulders. “I'll be right back. Just sit there, okay?” I say, before running to the bathroom.

When I come back she's on the bed, but there's a pile of her clothes on the floor at her feet, and she's down to her underwear. The blanket is held loosely round her, but her hands can't be bothered holding it shut. A graze along her hairline is turning purple at the edges, and there's a dark bruise blooming on her hip I didn't see earlier. I fucking hate seeing her hurt.

“Alright, up you get.” I hold out a hand.

She takes it, and stands, and the blanket slips.

It catches me off guard, and I feel my hand grip hers in response. I've seen her naked before. I've had her under my hands before. But there's something about the soft light filtering from the bathroom, illuminating her almost bare body, the fact that she's hurt and exhausted and doesn't seem to have the energy left to care, that knocks something loose in me anyway.

“I'm too tired for modesty right now,” she says, catching the look on my face before I can smooth it out. “Just pretend I'm a mannequin or something.”

“Right. A mannequin.” I keep my voice even. “I'll try to remember that.” Mannequins make people have terribly indecent thoughts, right? Don't answer that, I don't want to know.

She gives me a pointed look, bloodshot and tired but still full of meaning. “You're doing a terrible job of it already.”

“Hey, all I said was that I'd try.”

That gets a small, tired laugh out of her.

We walk to the bathroom together, her hand heavy on my arm, one of mine barely grazing the bare skin of her back, just enough for her to know it's there if she needs it. Once we get to the edge of the tub and I'm satisfied she's steady, I turn around, eyes shut, one hand held out ready for her. The last of her clothes hit the floor, and then I feel the weight of her using me for support and hear the water shift as she steps in.

“You can look now,” she sighs. “Mannequin is fully submerged.”

I open my eyes. She's sunk down deep into the water, the thin layer of bubbles lapping against her collarbones, knees drawn up, hair already damp at the ends.

“Is the water okay?”

“Hmm,” she says with a single nod that makes her wince. “It's perfect.”

“Okay. Google says it shouldn't be too hot. Something about blood pressure. But we can keep adding some more warm water if it cools too much.” I sit down on the edge of the tub. “Take as long as you need. I'll be here.”

She doesn't answer, just closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the porcelain, and for a while neither of us says anything. After a few minutes she opens her eyes, reaches for the soap, and starts washing her arms, slow, careful of the bruises. I watch the water ripple round her and wonder what she's thinking about.

As for me, I’m trying not to think about what I’d heard the other guys say about what’s been going on between them.

It doesn’t matter. As I’d said, tonight is just about taking care of her.

And I’m not going to give her a single moment of discomfort, of worry, of grief, not now that she’s here with me.

She’s not going to feel anything but completely and utter safety. At least I can give her that.

When she's done washing, she drops the soap back on the dish, closes her eyes, and sinks a little lower, letting the water curl against the curve of her throat.