Page 60 of At First Dance
“Yeah.” I find a smile. “You look uncomfortable.”
“I’ve slept on worse.” He sits forward, elbows on his knees, close enough that I can feel the heat off him. “More water?”
“In a minute.” I swallow. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making soup. For not hovering and somehow still not letting me be alone.” I wet my lips. “For this.”
His gaze drops to where his hand covers mine on the blanket, then comes back to my face like he’s landed on a plan. “How do you feel about a bath?” he asks, voice low and sure.
“A what now?”
“The clawfoot in the hall holds heat like a furnace,” he says, already rising. “Steam’ll help. Epsom salts if you can smell past the fever. I’ll make it hot, and you tell me when to stop.”
I should say I can manage. I don’t. “Okay.”
He squeezes my fingers once and disappears down the hall. Pipes groan, water roars into porcelain, cupboard doors thump softly. Lavender drifts back—wild, clean—like a hand smoothing my hair.
He returns, crouches, and slides one arm behind my shoulders, the other beneath my knees. “May I?”
“Yes.” Too fast.
He gathers me like I weigh nothing and stands, steady as the house itself. The room wobbles, then my cheek finds his chest—cedar, soap, summer air—and the wobble quits.
Steam curls from the tub as he nudges the door with his shoulder. Bubbles crowd the rim; two towels wait warming on a chair. He thinks of everything.
“Too hot?” he asks, lowering me so my fingers can test the surface.
“Perfect.”
He sets me on the closed lid, steadying me until I’m sure I’ll stay. “Clean T-shirt and a robe on the hook,” he says, studying the ceiling like it’s suddenly fascinating. “I’ll be right outside. Knock or say my name if you get lightheaded.”
“You’re very bossy.”
“Only when it’s useful.” He waits a beat, then murmurs, “Take your time.”
The door stays a sliver open—trust and safety in an inch of light. I undress slowly, knot my hair, and ease in. The heat takes me whole. Muscle by muscle, the ache lets go. The lavender settles my pulse like a lullaby.
“You still with me?” he asks after a minute, like he can hear my exhale catch.
“Mmm. Might never leave.”
“Good,” he says, smiling in the word. “Give me five minutes’ warning so I can bring water.”
Steam ghosts the mirror. When the fever fog lifts a notch, I call his name.
He knocks once and eases the door wider, eyes on the far wall, a glass of cold water in one hand and a chipped enamel pitcher in the other. “You’ve got half the tub on your head,” he says gently, noticing the crown of bubbles clinging to my hair. “Can I help you rinse? Less work if you don’t have to dunk.”
I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. “Please.”
He rolls his sleeves, keeping his gaze steady and high. A small towel appears from nowhere, and he lays it across my collarbones like a barber’s cape—modesty without fanfare—thenkneels by the clawfoot. “Lean back for me,” he murmurs, sliding one forearm beneath my neck so the curve of his wrist cradles my head. “Tell me if it’s too hot. The pressure okay?”
The first warm pour is heaven. He works his fingers through my hair in slow, sure strokes—care, not choreography. Lavender blooms again under his hands, and the ache behind my eyes loosens like a knot finally yielding. He massages the temples with his thumbs, gentle circles that make my lungs remember how to fill. Another pour. Another. He squeezes the ends, rinses until the water runs clear, then pats along my hairline with the towel like he’s erasing the last of the day.
“Head up,” he says softly, twisting the towel into a loose turban that smells like sun and cotton. “Got you.”
He offers the towel without looking, then helps me to my feet, and when the room tilts, his hand is already at my waist to steady me. The warm robe lands over my shoulders like a promise.
