Page 84 of Pretty When He Bleeds

I fist my hands in the back of his paint-streaked shirt, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping me standing. His heart is hammering against mine, his breath uneven, his fingers digging into my back like he’s holding on just as much as I am.

“I’m not leaving,” he mutters against my hair, his voice unsteady. “I’m here, Roman.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat closing up and I don’t know how long we stand there, gripping each other like the world is trying to tear us apart. But neither of us lets go.

His breathing is steady now, but his shoulders are still tense, his body coiled like a wire stretched too tight. I need to do something.Anything.Without a word, I pull back and grab his hand, lacing our fingers together. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t pull away. That alone tells me more than words ever could.

“Come on,” I murmur, giving his hand a small tug.

He blinks at me, slow and dazed, like he forgot I was even here. “What?”

“Shower,” I say simply. “You’re a fucking mess.”

A huff of something almost like amusement leaves him, but he doesn’t fight me when I pull him toward the bathroom. He lets me lead him, lets me take control, and for once, I don’t think it’s because he wants me to—I think it’s because he needs me to.

Inside the bathroom, I reach for the hem of his shirt and push it up over his head. He lifts his arms without hesitation, revealing ink-covered skin, his tattoos stretching over his chest and arms.

I don’t linger. Not like I usually would. This isn’t about that.

His sweats go next, and then mine, and then we’re both standing there naked, and I try to ignore the way his eyes flick over me like he’s looking for something he can’t find.

I step into the shower first, turning the knob and waiting for the water to heat up before glancing over my shoulder. Damon is still standing there, frozen, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Damon,” I say, keeping my voice steady and holding out my hand. “Come here.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he listens, stepping into the stall behind me. The second the warm water hits his skin, his body relaxes, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders little by little.

Neither of us speaks. The only sounds are the steady rush of water and our quiet, measured breaths.

I grab the soap and lather it between my hands before reaching for him, rubbing gentle circles along his arms, his shoulders, and his chest. The paint smears and drips down the drain, black mixing with clear water, swirling in a slow spiral before disappearing completely.

Damon doesn’t move. He just watches me, his green eyes shadowed and unreadable. I don’t push and I don’t say anything. I just keep working, my hands slow and methodical, tracing over his ribs, his stomach, and his arms again. Washing away whatever the fuck today was.

His throat bobs as he swallows. “You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to,” I say, cutting him off. “Just let me.”

A long beat of silence.

Then, finally, he nods.

I move down to his hands, lifting them between us. They’re still trembling, the black paint clinging to the creases in his palms and under his nails. I take my time, running the soap over his knuckles, his fingers, then the ridges of his wrists.

By the time I finish, his breathing is slow and even, and his body looser under my touch.

We still haven’t spoken as I turn him so the water can rinse the rest of the suds away. Neither of us acknowledges the way his head tips forward, just barely resting against my shoulder. Neither of us know what the fuck to say.

So we don’t. We just stand there, letting the water wash it all away.

Damon doesn’t fight me when I turn off the water. He doesn’t say anything when I step out first, grabbing a towel and holding it open for him. But the second I start patting him dry, his whole body locks up.

“The fuck are you doing?” he mutters, his voice tight.

I don’t react. Just keep working the towel over his arms, his shoulders, and the ridges of his spine. He’s still damp, his curls dripping onto his forehead, but he’s warm now—his body no longer trembling under my hands.

“Drying you off,” I say simply.

Damon clenches his jaw, his fingers twitching at his sides. “I can do it myself.”

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