Page 29 of Reluctantly You

“Wash yourself,” I command, but he doesn’t move. “Jesus,” I murmur as I take a seat on the closed toilet lid and reach for some shampoo. I squirt some in my palms and scrub at his hair and beard, the suds sliding down his neck and chest. Then I grab a bar of soap and work on washing his body, making sure to avoid anything private. I don’t want to touch him there. Have no desire to.

When he’s finally soapy and washed, I rinse him off by cupping my hands in the water and pouring it across his body. He doesn’t assist, doesn’t move.

Just sits there and lets it happen.

When the water has been drained from the tub, I debate just leaving him to finish the night alone. But instead I find myself wrapping a towel around his shoulders and helping him up, wetting my own shirt in the process.

Goddamnit. Fuck this. I didn’t sign up for this. I don’t want this.

But still, I help him to his room, his body sagging against mine until he’s seated on the edge of the bed, the towel falling open and exposing him to me. I don’t look, just turn away and go through his drawers, pulling out a pair of boxers and helping him put them on. He at least lifts his hips while I tug them up before he lies back on the bed. The kitten scurries up near him and makes biscuits on the damp towel.

“Mitchell.”

“Go away,” he finally replies, his voice weak.

“I can’t just leave you here like this.”

“You can.”

“No. I can’t. Do you have anyone I can call for you?”

Something’s really wrong, and I don’t know what the fuck to do to fix it. I didn’t know how to with my dad either.

Fucking Jack Morris. That asshole.

He pauses and swallows roughly, the sound pulling me back to the present.

“I have no one.”

He curls up on his side and stares at the wall, and I just watch him as another tear slides down his cheek.

Well, hell.

I end up making him something to eat, which is not something I wanted to do, nor is it anything I’m good at. But he has plenty of food in his fridge and so I make him a grilled cheese and bring him some chocolate milk.

I hate that I’ve been reduced to this. I feel like I’m feeding a toddler.

He just stares at it when I set it on the bedside table and then sighs.

“You need to eat, Mitchell.”

He just huffs, and so I grit my teeth and force him into a seated position, his back against my chest, my legs sprawled out against his. I grab the sandwich and press it against his lips, and he takes a tentative bite, his stomach grumbling loudly.

“Good,” I say, my hand on his chest, my other feeding him bits and pieces. I alternate between the sandwich and the chocolate milk, and by the time he’s done, his head is resting on my shoulder, his body limp against mine.

“Don’t you feel better?” I ask softly, and he just huffs his response.

I need to leave, need to go home and get back to my own life, but I don’t move. Just sit there, my chest tight, my brow furrowed.

I hate him, utterly despise this man, and here I am, in his bed, holding him.

Feeding him.

Caring for him.

I can’t be here. This is…it’s not what I want. I shift to move, but his hand comes up and grabs on to my wrist.

He doesn’t say a word, silence engulfing us, and I don’t move away either. I just stay there, holding him against me.

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