Page 108 of Almost Ours

“Good.”

I’m left in the top I was wearing underneath, dirty from the ground and stiff in places where blood has dried into the fabric, and Josh’s jaw tightens when he sees the bruising spreading above the neckline and along my arms. He doesn’t comment on it, though. His hands settle lightly around my forearms instead, nowhere near the marks, and his thumbs move against my skin in slow strokes.

“Nearly done.” The tenderness in his voice wrecks me.

“I feel disgusting,” I quietly admit. “I should probably shower.”

His brows pull together, gaze sliding all over my face. “You’re not and you can shower tomorrow.”

“My clothes are covered in crap.”

“Yeah. Your clothes are disgusting,” he corrects, reaching for the hem of my top. “You aren’t.”

A weak laugh escapes me. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” He waits again, eyes meeting mine until I give him another nod, and then he lifts the top slowly. This one comes off easier, but I still tense when his fingers brush the inside of my elbow. “Sorry.”

“It didn’t hurt.”

“You flinched.”

“I’m jumpy. I’m sorry.”

He sets the top with the hoodie and comes back to me without rushing. “You don’t need to apologise for any of it. Actually, please stop apologising.”

I’m standing in my bra and leggings now, and under any other circumstances I would probably combust from embarrassment at being half-undressed in front of Josh, but there is nothing sexual about this. He doesn’t look anywhere except my face and the bruises on my arms, and when his attention does lower it is only to work out how to help me without hurting me.

“I can do the trousers myself,” I breathe, although even saying it feels optimistic, my whole body is spent.

Josh raises an eyebrow.

“I can.”

“Alright,” he relents.

I reach for the waistband and realise bending forwards makes my ribs scream. My hand stops there and I shut my eyes, frustrated so much that tears threaten again.

“Hey.” Josh catches my hand before I can try again. “None of that.”

“I can’t even get my own clothes off.”

“You’ve had a horrible night.” He crouches in front of me and lets go, resting his hands on his own knees. “Let somebody help you for five minutes.”

“Josh,” I plead, refusing to look down at him kneeling between my feet.

“Let me help you.” His voice is thick with emotion. “Helping you is helping me.”

“How can that be true?”

“Because I can’t do anything about what happened to you.” His fingers brush lightly against my knee and my legs threaten to give out. “I can’t go back and stop it, I can’t take the bruises off you, and I can’t make you forget any of it happened. But I can help you get changed. I can make sure you’re warm. I can get you into bed.” He looks up at me. “So let me do that.”

I finally look down at him, and the sight nearly finishes me off. Josh is below me, bruised jaw tilted up, his fingers resting carefully against the inside of my forearm, and he’s looking at me with such quiet focus that it feels like nothing in the room matters to him except getting me through the next five minutes. The amount of care in his face makes me want to break down and sob.

“Okay,” I give a sharp nod.

He stays still. “Okay as in I can help?”

I tip my head forward. “Yeah.”