Page 9 of Glass Rose (Where Roses Rot #1)

The door clicks not quite shut behind him. I strip the rest of my underwear and step into the bathtub. Pink rivulets swirl around my feet. Mom’s fancy lavender and vanilla body wash sits on the ledge, and I grab it, lathering my skin.

It feels like home.

“Sofia?” Gavin’s voice filters through the crack in the door. “You okay in there?”

I press my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water pound my back. “Define ‘okay.’”

“Still breathing. ”

“Then I guess I’m fucking fantastic.”

The bathroom door creaks wider, and his silhouette bleeds through the plastic curtain. “You should get out.”

I shut off the water, droplets sliding down my skin. “Hand me a towel, please?”

Gavin’s arm extends around the shower curtain, holding out a fluffy blue one.

I wrap it around myself, tucking the corner between my breasts, and step out. The world still feels like it’s moving in slow motion, but the shower has cleared my head enough to function.

“Your turn,” I say.

He shakes his head. “We need to go. Now.”

“I got five minutes. You get five minutes.” I glance at the clock on the wall. “We have more than an hour before we need to be back. That’s plenty of time for you to wash off the blood.”

Gavin hesitates, the doorframe creaking beneath his fingers. “I’m fine.”

“When was the last time you had a real shower?”

His gaze drops to my bare shoulders, then back to my face. “Two minutes.”

“Five.”

“Three.” He takes off his shirt, and I can’t help the sharp intake of breath.

His torso is a roadmap of scars—surgical incisions, injection sites, what look like burn marks. Evidence of fourteen months of systematic torture carved into his flesh. But what catches my eye even more is the fresh wound along his left side—a jagged line that’s trying to heal but is angry and raw.

“Gavin.”

“It’s nothing.”

“That’s not nothing. That’s—” I trace it. “When? ”

“Few hours ago. Happened at the facility. It’ll heal.” He unbuckles his belt.

I avert my eyes. “Tell me when you’re done. We’re stitching that up.”

“It’ll heal on its own.” The shower curtain rings scrape against the rod as he steps in.

“Not properly.” I gather my wet hair into a knot. “And I’m pretty sure rolling around in zombie guts qualifies as a fucking infection risk.”

The water runs for around a minute before it shuts off abruptly. So much for three minutes.

His arm reaches out for a towel, and I hand him one without looking. One second later, he steps out with it wrapped around his waist, water droplets tracing paths down the contours of his chest, following the roadmap of scars to disappear beneath the towel. I force my eyes up to his face.

“You’re staring.”

“Scientist. I observe things.” I clear my throat. “That cut needs stitches.”

“It’ll close on its own. Enhanced healing.” His fingers brush over the wound. “Already better than it was an hour ago.”

“And if it gets infected? Does your super-healing cover sepsis?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Worried about me, Doc?”

“I’m worried about being stuck with a six-foot-three corpse when you drop dead from stubbornness.”

“I won’t drop dead.” He props himself against the counter, studying me. “But if it makes you feel better, you can play doctor.”

“I am a doctor.”

“Not that kind. ”

“There’s a first aid kit in the hall closet. Mom always kept it stocked.”

“Sofia.” His voice softens. “We don’t have to?—”

“I need to do something useful right now.” My fingers clench around the edge of my towel. “Please.”

He nods once.

“Thank you.” I exhale, steadier now. “Get dressed. I’ll find you a shirt that might fit—my dad’s closet…” My dad. Downstairs. Dead. By my hand.

“Hey.” His fingers claim my chin, forcing it up to meet his gaze. “Stay with me.”

I blink rapidly. “I’m here.”

“Are you?”

“I’m trying.”

“Mhm…” His eyes drift between mine. “Sofia?”

My voice comes out smaller than I intend. “Yes?”

“Clothes?”

“Right. Clothes.” I shake myself out of whatever weird trance I’ve fallen into. “Let me grab something.”

I dart across the hall to my parents’ bedroom, averting my eyes from their photos on the wall. The walk-in closet still smells like Dad’s aftershave and Mom’s perfume.

I grab one of his old military pants, a thermal henley, and heavy boots. Dad was a bit shorter, but these still might fit Gavin’s tall frame. Arms full of clothing, I return to the bathroom.

Gavin’s standing exactly where I left him, towel wrapped low on his hips.

“These should fit.” I thrust the clothes at him, careful not to touch his bare skin. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

He catches my wrist. “You need clothes, too.”

I glance down at my towel. “Right.”

“Unless you’re planning to fight zombies in terrycloth. ”

“That would be a bold fashion choice.” My attempt at humor falls flat, voice cracking on the last word.

I hurry back to my parents’ bedroom because the clothes I left in my room are from high school. Inside her closet, I find an old pair of jeans, a faded blue t-shirt, and her worn leather jacket. I dress and slip into the sturdy hiking boots from their trip last year.

Fully dressed, I search for the first aid kit and bring it to Gavin, who’s wearing my father’s pants, chest still bare.

“Sit.” I place the kit on the counter and open it up.

He lowers himself to the edge of the bathtub, legs spread, bringing us to eye-level and too close in this tiny bathroom.

I dab antiseptic on the jagged tear. “Does it hurt?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink, doesn’t even seem to register the pain.

“You’ve had worse,” I murmur.

“Much.”

I probe the cut, scanning his other scars. His skin is hot under my touch—fever? Or another side-effect? “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“I should have acted sooner.” I thread the needle. “Done something.”

“Or ended up in the cell next to mine.”

“Maybe that would’ve been better than being complicit.” I set out to make the first stitch.

His hand catches mine, stopping me. “No. It wouldn’t.”

Our eyes lock, and I can't look away. There's something raw in them.

“We should—” I swallow hard. “I need to finish this.”

He releases me. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“Med school. First two years before I switched to research. Turns out I prefer my patients in petri dishes. Less messy…” I st art again, hands steady despite everything. “Do you really have no one?” The needle dips in and out. “Not a single person in the world who might be worried about you?”

“Not anymore. Parents died when I was young. No siblings.” His eyes track my hands as they work. “You done?”

“Almost.” The last stitch goes in smoothly, and I cut the thread with small scissors from the kit before testing the stitches with my fingertips. “There. Should hold.”

He turns away, putting on the shirt that stretches across his shoulders like it was made for him.

“You look…” My voice trails off.

“Ridiculous?”

“Human.”

“Is that what I am?”

A few hours ago, he was a stranger—a test subject, a monster created in a lab. Today, he’s the only thing standing between me and a complete breakdown.

Funny how the apocalypse changes your perspective.

“What else would you be?” I ask.

“A monster.”

“You saved me. Twice.”