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"I didn't ask if you need me to come over," she said firmly. "I told you. I’m coming over."
Whatever protest I had died on my tongue as the line went dead. Even in the small things, Justice ran our world like a trained strategist – always precise, always in command. Sometimes it made me forget that beneath all that steel will and tenacity hid a woman who had known more pain than anyone ever should.
The soft knock on my door came sooner than expected; she must have already been on her way, and the call was nothing more than a formality. Justice walked in, her eyes scanning the room before they finally landed on me.
She didn't say anything, her lips pressed into a thin line as she closed the door softly behind her. Then she was moving, shedding off her jacket as she made her way to me. Her touch was gentle when she finally reached me, even though her gaze remained hard.
I sighed, leaning back as she came up to me, my eyes closing. Her hands were on my shoulders, touching me gingerly. She knew what had happened, what was going on under my clothes.
I didn’t want to take them off. Didn’t want to see.
I didn’t like that my scars were visible now. It was a new level of vulnerability that made me ache somewhere deep…and that no pain meds could help, even if I was willing to take them.
"Open your eyes," she commanded softly. I did as she asked, and for the first time since the explosion, I found something other than darkness to stare at. I wanted to dive into those eyes, swim in her.
Maybe drown.
“Your hair is getting too long,” she whispered. “And I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you with your beard like this.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Unkempt, you mean?”
“Yeah…” she trailed off. “I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said, reaching up to touch her face. “I’m not your responsibility.”
“You’re not my responsibility, right,” she shook her head. “You’re my love. Which means I’m going to worry. And you don’t get a say in it.”
I nodded–because of course she was worried. I’d been staying in my own apartment more than usual, grappling with the pain and resisting any of Zane’s offers of pain meds.
I’d been an addict. I’d been a victim. I couldn’t lose control of myself.
She studied my face for a moment longer before sighing heavily, "You need a shower."
It wasn't a suggestion; it wasn't even a demand–it was an order. And I found myself nodding in agreement even before I could process her words. But more than that, what struck me was the fact that she could see through my tough exterior with such ease–see my fear and my lingering trauma like they were ink stains on a blank piece of paper.
I wasn't even that dirty. I was just not as impeccably dressed or groomed as I usually was.
"It's hard," I said. "With the bandages on my skin."
"Then I'll help you."
And before I could utter any form of protest, Justice was pulling me up and leading me to my bathroom.
"Justice," I began, not sure how to articulate everything that was swirling inside of me. She cut me off with a single look.
"Just shut up and let me help," she said, rolling her eyes. But underneath the playful façade, there was a firmness that left no room for argument. “You did really good at the party.”
“Which party?”
“Doesn’t matter. You did good at all of them.”
“That’s my job,” I replied.
“Good. Get in the shower.”
I couldn't help but smile at her assertiveness.
I allowed myself to be led to the bathroom and watched as Justice ran the water, adjusting the temperature just the way I liked it–warm enough to soothe my aches but not too hot to agitate the healing wounds. Her hands were gentle as she helped me out of my clothes and bandages, her touch careful but not hesitant. And even though there was nothing amorous about the act, I couldn't help but feel a surge of heat rise within me just by the sheer proximity we shared.
