Page 39

Margot

I don’t process anything from the drive home.

I don’t process anything at all.

Matty opens the passenger door, unbuckles my seatbelt, and picks me up. I don’t protest. I don’t tell him I can walk.

Because I can’t.

Benny whines at the loss of contact, and the moment I’m out the car, he’s right there, pressed into Matty’s legs, glued to my side like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.

Petting him in the car kept me grounded. That, and Matty’s hand on my thigh. Though I think he needed the connection just as much as I did.

He carries me upstairs, through our bedroom, and into the bathroom.

He sets me on the floor beside the tub and turns on the water, adjusting the temperature, testing it, and adjusting again until he deems it acceptable .

He hesitates before leaving, stepping into the bedroom. I hear him telling Benny he needs to stay before the door clicks shut.

He’s only gone for seconds.

But when he returns, the look on his face... it’s like he’s been away for hours. Like he couldn’t breathe without me in sight.

I know how he feels. I can’t be alone right now. I need him too.

He looks at me for permission, and I nod.

He gently undresses me.

I sigh, relieved to be rid of the clothes. They feel wrong. Dirty. Contaminated. I never want to see them again.

He lifts me into the water. It’s hot, but not enough to burn. The tub is so deep, the water rises to my collarbones. I’m engulfed in warmth, but I can’t relax. My eyes stay locked on the pile of discarded fabric.

“Can we throw them away?” My voice is barely there, raw and quiet. “Those clothes. I don’t want them. They feel dirty.”

Matty exhales in relief. “Of course, sweetheart. You never have to see them again. We can do whatever you want.” His voice is patient. Gentle.

I look at him for the first time since he found me.

His eyes are haunted, like he’s seen his own demons and barely survived. Lines of worry mar his face, aging him decades. He’s pale and tinted green.

And he’s shaking. It’s a small tremor. Almost unnoticeable. I don’t think he even realizes.

I reach out, my fingers closing around his hands. I hold them still, steadying the tremor.

He freezes. His breath hitches.

“They were shaking.” I whisper. My voice cracks .

“I didn’t realize.” He speaks just as softly. Then firmer. “And sweetheart, you can always touch me. There doesn’t need to be a reason. I’m yours.”

I’m yours.

The words settle deep. He’s told me I’m his, but not that he’s mine. There’s something different about it. Something that stitches together a little of what was broken.

I nod and slowly pull my hands away.

He fills a cup and wets my hair carefully, like I’ll shatter under his touch. He pours my shampoo into his palms and massages it into my scalp for a few minutes. It’s calming and relaxing. After a few minutes, he rinses it out in slow strokes.

Then he reaches for the conditioner, ready to smooth it over my scalp.

“Just on the ends,” I correct softly.

His brows furrow. “Why?”

“Conditioner doesn’t go on your scalp.” I explain. “It’ll make your hair greasy.”

He nods and adjusts. He runs his fingers through my ends, working through the knots well after they’re gone. He keeps going, over and over, like he’s soothing himself just as much as me.

I let him.

Then he lathers a loofah with soap and starts washing me, light strokes over my arms. Too soft. Too gentle.

“Harder, please,” I whisper, voice thin.

His hands still. I look into his eyes, and he understands.

He scrubs harder, making sure to cover every inch of me. With every swipe of the loofah, every pass over my skin, it feels like some of the horror washes away. Not all of it. Not what lingers inside. But enough.

When he rinses the soap off, I can breathe again.

And when he’s done, I finally feel clean.