Page 86 of The Love Syllabus

I head to my library, flipping through one ethnobotanical book after another. The crisp night air cools the fire still simmering beneath my skin as I step into my garden, gathering arnica leaves for her bruises, comfrey for her muscles, and calendula tosoothe her skin. Then, I head to the kitchen and begin making my ointments, pouring my frustration into the careful preparation of every remedy.

Hours pass. Kerry’s parents have settled into the guest room, the house is still, and when I check the clock, 2 a.m. stares back at me. Exhaustion claws at the edges of my consciousness, but before I can think about resting, a soft, strained voice cuts through the quiet.

“Vic.”

I move toward her room, careful not to wake the girls. When I step inside, Kerry is frowning, shifting in discomfort, her hand instinctively reaching for her back.

“Hey, you might be a little sore,” I warn.

She groans, eyes fluttering open. “I’m more than sore, Vic. I’m dirty. I can’t believe you let me lay in this bed after being on that disgusting bathroom floor.”

This woman.

“You do kind of smell.” I huff out a quiet laugh.

She gasps playfully but only to wince in pain.

“See?” I shake my head. “I told you to take it easy. Let me take care of you.”

For once, she doesn’t argue. She just nods.

I step into the bathroom, filling the tub with warm water before adding mugwort and white willow bark. The steam curls into the air, laced with the scent of healing.

When I return to her side, I help her sit up slowly, guiding her to the bathroom. She curls her fingers around my arm for support, her body leaning into mine as she trusts me to lead her forward. When we reach the tub, she slips out of her robe and into the water.

I pause at the edge of the clawfoot tub, watching as she tilts her head back, eyes closed, her body finally relaxing.

“May I bathe you?”

Her breath slows. Her eyes flutter. And then, she nods.

Rolling up my sleeves, I dip a cloth into the herbal water. The moment the warm fabric glides across her skin, she exhales, the tension melting from her shoulders, from her face, from her body.

I brush soft, careful strokes down her back, over her arms, along her legs. Her breathing evens. Her mind settles. And for the first time in hours, a smile plays on her lips.

But when I pause, she opens her eyes, catching me staring at her wrist. The bruises are dark, raw, and staining her skin.

She tries to brush it off. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Vic. I bruise easily.”

I don’t respond right away. Instead, I slowly run my thumb over the discoloration.

“But you shouldn’t have to bruise at all.” I lift her hand to my lips, pressing slow, reverent kisses along her palm, her fingers, and the inside of her wrist.

A single tear slips down her cheek, but I catch it with my thumb and proceed to worship her.

After her bath, I wrap her in a heavy robe and guide her back to bed. She doesn’t resist as I kneel beside her, warming the ointment between my hands before smoothing it gently over her bare skin. She exhales, the knots of tension in her muscles unwinding under my touch.

When I finally lie beside her, she turns, nestling against my chest. And just before sleep claims her, she whispers, “Thank you.”

I tighten my arms around her, press a lingering kiss to her hair, and silently thank her for trusting me and for letting me be the last touch her body tonight.

And if she’ll let me, I’ll make sure every touch she ever experiences from now on is one of comfort, safety, respect, passion, and love.

~~~

It’s been a month since Kerry’s past was revealed. She told meeverythingabout the night she left. She trusts me with the only secret she has. And since then, something has shifted. We’ve shifted.

It’s subtle, but noticeable. The walls between us are gone. Our conversations are deeper, more honest, more vulnerable. We’re not dancing around each other the way we used to. There’s no pretense, no facade. She’s still stubborn, and hell, and I’m as hardheaded as they come, but we’ve settled into this quiet space where we accept each other exactly as we are.

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