Page 62 of A Mistake of Worth
“What if nothing terrible happens at all?” he murmured against Henri’s lips. “What if you’re just allowed to be happy?”
Henri kissed him back, desperate and still shaking.
It would take time, Michael knew. Years, maybe. Henri had been conditioned to believe that love was earned through suffering, that his portion of the world was supposed to be smaller, lesser, more painful. That kind of damage didn’t heal overnight.
But for the first time since Henri had walked into his life, Michael saw a flicker of hope in those eyes. A tiny spark of belief that maybe, just maybe, he was worth saving.
And Michael would spend every day proving him right.
“Come on,” Michael said softly, pressing a kiss to Henri’s forehead. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
He led Henri into the bathroom, turning on the shower and adjusting the temperature until steam curled around the room. Henri stood uncertainly by the door, still clutching Michael’s shirt, his whole body vibrating with residual tension.
“It’s okay,” Michael murmured, gently helping Henri out of his clothes before stripping off his own workout gear. “Just let me take care of you.”
Under the warm spray, Henri flinched when Michael reached for the shampoo. Michael slowed his movements, telegraphing every touch, waiting for Henri to relax incrementally before continuing. He worked shampoo through Henri’s hair with gentle fingers, massaging his scalp until Henri’s eyes fluttered closed and some of the rigidity left his shoulders.
He washed Henri’s body with soft touches, nothing sexual, just loving care. The kind Henri had been denied. But Henri’s muscles stayed taut, braced, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for this tenderness to transform into something else.
“I’ve got you,” Michael whispered. “You’re safe. I promise.”
Henri’s breath hitched, but he leaned into the touch. Slowly. Carefully. Learning how.
When Michael was done, he tilted his head toward the shampoo bottle. “Your turn.”
Henri blinked up at him, confused. “My turn?”
“Wash my hair,” Michael said gently. “I’d like that.”
Henri’s hands hesitated before reaching for the bottle. He squeezed shampoo into his palm, then brought his hands up to Michael’s hair with uncertain movements. His touch was tentative at first, barely there, as though he was afraid of doing it wrong.
“That’s good,” Michael encouraged. “You can press harder. I won’t break.”
Henri’s fingers grew more confident, working the shampoo through Michael’s hair with increasing sureness. Michael closed his eyes, letting Henri take his time, feeling the careful attention in every stroke.
When Henri’s fingers began working the soap out under the spray, Michael opened his eyes and found Henri watching him with something soft in his expression. Michael leaned forward and kissed him, gentle and unhurried, Henri’s soapy fingers still tangled in his hair.
Henri made a small sound against his mouth, surprised but pleased, and kissed back.
When they finally pulled apart, Michael smiled. “Perfect. Now let’s get out before we turn into prunes.”
He reached for the towel rack.
Empty.
Michael stared at the bare rack, then laughed. “I forgot the towels.”
“What?” Henri’s lips twitched.
“The towels I was so worked up about.” Michael shook his head. “They’re still in the linen closet. Don’t move.”
He pushed open the shower door and made a dash for it, water dripping across the tile floor in his wake. When he returned moments later with the fluffy navy towel for Henri and another for himself, he found Henri covering his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“Not a word,” Michael warned, though he was grinning.
“The water,” Henri said, gesturing at the drops scattered across the floor.
“It’s just water,” Michael said firmly, wrapping the navy towel around Henri’s shoulders. “It’ll dry. Or I’ll mop it up later. But right now, I need you to promise me you’ll ignore it.”
