Page 227 of What We Become

I hold on.

He doesn’t make much noise. Just these rough, broken breaths against my skin while his hands spread over my back, checking and holding and refusing to settle anywhere for long.

I slide one hand into his hair.

“I love you,” I tell him.

His mouth presses against my shoulder.

“I love you too.”

We stand there until the water stops dripping off the ends of my hair. Until his breathing evens out against my throat and the shuddering slows.

Then I push the glass door open and reach for the towels.

I dry him first. He lets me, which is enormous on its own—Eli doesn’t let anyone do things for him unless the wheels have fully come off. I work the towel over his chest, his shoulders, down his arms, careful of the rope burn on his wrists. He stands quiet, eyes on me the whole time.

“I want to get old with you,” he whispers.

My eyes lift to meet his.

“I want to hear you complaining about your joints. I want you to get annoyed because I’ve moved something in the kitchen. I want to be so fucking bored of knowing where you keep everything that I move it just to watch you find it.”

“You already listen to me complain,” I say.

He laughs. “Then I want to keep doing it.”

He leans in and catches my mouth with his. Kisses me until I stop trying to speak around the lump in my throat.

When we finally break apart, his forehead stays pressed to mine, and we stand there breathing each other’s air like it’s the only oxygen left in the house.

“Stay with me,” he says.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know. Say it anyway.”

“I’m staying. I’m yours.”

His eyes close. The tension goes out of his face. We wrap towels around our waists.

I find the first-aid kit under the sink and sit him on the edge of the tub. Fresh gauze, clean tape. I wind it around his wrists slowly, and he watches my hands the whole time. When I finish, he takes the roll from me and does mine. His fingers are steadier now. That’s something.

We get dressed slowly, out of order, in each other’s way. He helps pull my T-shirt over my head so the fabric doesn’t drag over my injuries. I ease his shirt over his shoulders and button it for him, and he lets me—the second enormous thing he’s let me do tonight.

There’s a knock. Three raps, a pause, then two more. Milo. Even his knocking can’t commit to being serious.

“You guys alive in there? Because—birthday cake. Well, belated birthday cake. But there’s presents too. And I just know you’re all gonna love what I got her.”

“I thought you bought her the car?” I ask.

He groans. “Don’t remind me of that ill-fated gift. But yeah, I got her another gift too. I went a little overboard.”

Eli’s mouth twitches. “We’ll be down in a minute.”

“Okay. Love you guys!”

“Love you too,” I call back, but he’s already gone—footsteps retreating at a pace that suggests he’s afraid we’ll make him wait for cake.