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He shampooed and conditioned my hair, painstakingly cleaned every inch of my body. When he was done, I took the soapy loofah from him and started to wash his chest. He almost grabbed my wrist to stop me, and I shook my head.
“Please. Let me do this,” I whispered. My voice was hoarse from the screaming, but he understood me anyway. He released his hold on me and I bathed him in return. He washed his hair and his beard while I thoroughly soaped up his body.
We both stood under the water together for several more moments, just holding each other before he shut the water off. He carried me out of the shower, placing me down gently before wrapping me in a towel. He picked me up and sat me down on the counter. He dried me off my legs with a hand towel, dabbing gently at the place where the glass had jabbed into me. He opened a cabinet, grabbing a first aid kit and setting it down beside me.
I kept still as he dried the injury. Then his face fell, scrunching with real pain as he stared at my open wound.
“This is deep enough that I need to rinse it with alcohol and then I need to put some antibiotic on it, sweetheart.”
I nodded.
“I wish I could take the pain for you,” he said next. He grabbed a cloth and wet it with alcohol.
“I know,” I whispered.
He held the towel an inch away from me, hesitating. I clutched at his shoulders, and I could feel him wilt just a little at having to do this.
He didn’t want to hurt me, but he cared enough to do this anyway.
“Go ahead. I’m ready,” I said bravely.
“I’m sorry, little girl,” he said wearily. I gritted my teeth as the alcohol burned against my skin. I kept silent, and I was proud of myself for it. It stung, but it was over quickly. He meticulously spread antibiotic over it and bandaged it as quickly as humanly possible. I sighed in relief when it was over.
“I know,” I whispered, smiling as he leaned in and brushed his lips against mine. His kiss was tender and laced with sadness.
“It’s very late, my love. It’s time for bed,” he murmured. He pulled back, kissing my forehead lightly. He pulled the towel away from me and carried me into the bedroom, both of us completely naked.
He tucked me under the covers first, sitting down beside me and brushing the hair out of my face.
“I’m so glad you’re safe in my bed again,” he said quietly.
“Me too,” I smiled.
He got up and walked around the bed, climbing in beside me and pulling me close against his chest. I snuggled against him and shut my eyes.
A wave of exhaustion swept over me, and I was asleep in no time at all.
* * *
A week later
For days, Jon doted on me hand and foot. He insisted on helping me dress and even on feeding me a few times.
“I’m not a child,” I scoffed once.
“I know, baby girl, but it brings me pleasure to take care of you.” He was gentle in his reply, but I was starting to get antsy, and he knew it.
He said nothing about it, but we both knew that he needed to punish me. I needed it and so did he. With every passing day, I felt that guilt grow bigger. It was like a train hurtling full speed straight off the edge of a cliff and there was no stopping it.
With endless patience, he made sure I had everything I needed as my leg healed. He checked it every day like clockwork, covering the cut with antibiotic cream and wrapping it in fresh bandages almost religiously.
When the weekend finally came around, I felt like I was going to burst. We were sitting on the couch that Saturday night. He was flipping through movies, looking for a good one for us to watch and I stood up, feeling edgier than ever. I walked toward the kitchen, fully intending on pouring myself a cocktail, but I froze mid-step and whirled around to face him.
“Jon, I can’t take this anymore,” I began.
I couldn’t stop myself.
“Can’t take what, Mila?” he asked, cocking his head quizzically.
