Page 141 of Silent Shadows

We’d both been soaked and filthy for hours, cold enough to stop joking for a while.

Even while other things are terrifying, taking care of each other feels inevitable.

I reach for the mini shampoo bottle in my bag just beyond the shower curtain.

“Okay,” I say, trying to be normal and failing. “I should warn you I have no credentials here.”

Her mouth twitches. “You wash your own hair.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m good at it.”

That gets a laugh.

She turns fully then, back to me. Trusting. Daisy Bennett— the woman who talks faster than thought, who armors herself in jokes and confidence sharp enough to cut—is standing in front of me with wet hair and tired eyes and absolutely nowhere to hide. Letting me take care of her.

Something in my chest tightens. I wet my hands first, working shampoo between my palms. The scent blooms between us—nothing fancy.

“Ready?” I ask.

Her shoulders lift slightly. “Sure.”

Brave for somebody who looks deeply unconvinced.

I step closer and work my fingers into her hairline. My fingertips skim her scalp carefully, awkward for half a second before rhythm takes over. Slow circles. Gentle pressure.

This feels unbearably intimate.

She exhales. The kind of release people make without realizing.

“Oh,” she murmurs.

Heat rushes straight into my face.

“Too much?”

“No.”

Her eyes flutter shut. “No, don’t st⁠—”

She cuts herself off. Then laughs once, embarrassed.

“You know what I mean.”

I smile despite myself. “Hot.”

“Shut up.”

But there’s no bite to it. Steam curls around us while I work through her hair, careful with her in ways I can’t explain.

Every now and then she bumps into me in the cramped space and mutters an apology. Once she elbows me. Once I step on her foot. The whole thing should feel ridiculous. Instead, it feels special in the most ordinary way. Like care stripped down to its simplest form. Like standing close enough to see somebody unguarded, and deciding to stay gentle with what they hand you.

She might not know it yet, but Daisy is the first person who has ever quieted my mind enough for instinct to drown out thought, leaving nothing but the simple, terrifying urge to stay close.

I detach the showerhead to rinse her hair, and her forehead rests against my chest. Her hands make their way around me, roaming over my back in the water. My breath hitches—I’m only just learning the terrifying shape of how much this woman matters to me.

I put the showerhead back and she looks up, eyes meeting mine.

“Can I take care of you now?” she asks playfully.