She didn't say anything. Just came up close, reached for the hem of my shirt, and started peelin' it up.
I raised my good arm. Let her.
The fabric dragged over the shoulder that wasn't workin' right and I hissed through my teeth. She paused, adjusted, worked it gentler. Got it up and over my head and dropped it on the floor in Cat's heap. No, not in Cat's heap—onCat. She didn't so much as flinch.
Calvin went for my belt next.
Her fingers were steady. No flirtation in it. Just a woman takin' care of a man whose body had been through the wringer, and doin' it the same way she mucked stalls—methodical, thorough, no fuss.
She got me outta the jeans, the boots, the socks, the boxers, and when I was standin' there bare-ass naked in my own bathroom with a butterfly bandage at my hairline and a purple bruise blooming up my whole left side, she didn't comment.
Just nodded at the tub.
"In."
I went.
The water was hot enough to make me hiss a second time as I lowered myself in, good arm bracing on the lip of the tub, and I let it take my weight. Every muscle I owned groaned its gratitude. My head dropped back against the curved edge of the tub, and I closed my eyes.
A moment later I heard her movin' again.
The rustle of denim.
The soft swish of a shirt comin' off.
"Scoot up," she said.
I opened my eyes.
She was standin' at the side of the tub in nothin' at all, hair pushed back from her face, and she was lookin' at me with an expression that was part command, part somethin' softer I wasn't gonna name out loud.
I scooted 'til my knees were juttin' out from the water, bent at an acute angle.
She climbed in behind me—gingerly, one hand on the tub for balance, her toes then her knees brushin' my waist as she did her level best to situate us in a position that was best set reversed. My energy was zapped, so I leaned my weight back against her. The soft fullness of her tits cushioned my back and I rested my head against her collarbone. It shoulda been uncomfortable being sardined in the tub together. But her skin was on my skin, and we both exhaled, a long slow breath in unison.
Her hands came around.
One to my chest, flat over my heart.
She reached for the washcloth she'd set on the ledge with the other.
Didn't scrub. Just dragged the warm, soapy cloth slow over my shoulders, gently down my arms—bein' extra careful around the bad one. Across my chest. Over the bruise that spread from hip to ribs on my side—featherlight there, the barest touch.
She washed my hair next. Fingers in the scruff of it, workin' the shampoo in slow circles, nails draggin' just deep enough to scratch.
I was close to purrin' by the time she rinsed it.
She ditched the washcloth and settled back against the tub with me against her chest. Wrapped both arms around me and held on.
Her chin rested on the top of my head.
We sat like that for a long time before she broke the silence.
"Thank you," she said.
She paused for a beat.
"For loving me."
