I try to construct a response, but with the combination of the events that just transpired and my restless night, I'm at a loss for words.
“Fuck.” He sits on the balls of his feet and runs his trembling hand over the top of his head. His body is rigid, and the aftermath of his nightmare reflects in his clouded eyes.
After a short stretch of silence, he stands from his crouched position and stalks out of the room. I want to go after him, but stay kneeling, my brain too fried to force my legs to move as a surge of chaotic emotions crash into me.
Once I’ve gathered my composure, I scamper off the floor and take off after him. My heart races in my chest as I make my way out of the main bedroom and down the hall. The trickling of freshly brewed coffee into a percolator changes the course of my direction. The strong, heavenly scent hits my senses as I enter the kitchen, waking me more from my agitated state. As tempting as a hot brew is right now, I exit the kitchen when I discover it is void of Hugo. After checking the den, dining room, and living areas, I make my way to the master bathroom on the other side of the apartment.
The sound of the shower running amplifies the further I walk down the hall. I knock on the partially cracked-open door before pushing it fully open. Through the billowing of steam, I see Hugo standing in the middle of the double shower. His feet are planted wide, his head bowed, the heavy pressure of the shower head blasting hot water onto the nape of his neck.
Sensing my presence, he slants his head to the side. My heart cracks when I see the bleakness in his eyes. They appear almost lifeless. Utterly broken. When his eyes return to the dark gray tiles, I strip out of my clothes, leaving them where they fall.
Cold sweat clings to my skin when I open the glass door and slip into the steam-filled space. The muscles in Hugo’s back flex when I run my hand down his spine, silently soothing him, using my touch to free him of the aftermath of his nightmare.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Ava.”
The brokenness in his voice breaks my heart.
“You didn’t hurt me,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
He angles his head to the side and stares into my eyes, calling my deceit.
My heart slithers into my gut. “You scared me, but you didn’t hurt me.”
I slip under his arm bracing against the wall and wrap my arms around his waist. His racing heart pounds through my ear when I rest my head on his chest.
“You’re not capable of physically hurting me,” I mumble against his chest.
He runs his trembling hand down my back before pulling me in close to him. I pop my head off his torso and peer into his downcast eyes. The furious beat of his heart pulverizes my hand.
“This is the only thing that can hurt me. Not you,” I say with my hand over his chest.
“That’s the most fucked up part of me,” he says with his heavily pupiled eyes dancing between mine.
Lifting my hand, I cradle his sweat-drenched jaw. The blood coursing through his veins throbs against my palm. “Why? Because you had nightmare?”
His eyes relay the words his mouth fails to speak. He feels ashamed.
“Don’t be ashamed of something you can’t help. Nightmares in adults are generally caused by a psychological trigger. You have no control over them.”
A rumble escapes Hugo’s parted lips. “You sound like my therapist.”
My eyes rocket to his. “You’re seeing a therapist?”
“Not exactly,” he grumbles. “My boss included it as a requirement of my employment, but I haven’t turned up to a session yet.”
My brows scrunch, wondering why such a stipulation would be included in an employment contract. I’ve never heard of such a requirement before. Hugo watches me, soundlessly gauging my reaction to his confession of needing to see a therapist. I’m not at all concerned. There is no shame in seeking help during a crisis. I know a lot of men are embarrassed to admit they are struggling, but to me, acknowledging that you need help is one of the strongest things you can do.
I place a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth before pressing my cheek against his chest, not wanting him to feel forced to share personal information he isn’t willing to divulge yet. Although his heart is still pounding forcefully, it isn’t as intense as earlier.
A stretch of silences passes between us, long enough that the heat of the water cools. It hasn’t been uncomfortable or weird. It just feels right. I run my hand over the small of his back, silently supporting him while his index finger traces the curves of my neck. With the heat of the water and the closeness of his body, any agitation hampering my mind soothes. I can only hope it is the same for Hugo.
“I reacted the way I did because when I saw the blood running down your leg, I thought I’d hurt you,” he eventually murmurs a short time later.
I shake my head, denying his statement, but remain quiet, happy he has chosen to talk to me.
“I wasn’t angry at you, Ava. I was furious at myself. If I’d known you were a virgin, I would have ensured your body was prepared, that you were prepared. I wouldn’t have done it the way I did.”
“I’m glad you didn’t know then,” I interrupt.
