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She’s a mess. She’s stunning, still dressed in most of her costume.
“My fiery savior,” I drawl, raising my hands to calm her down.
I’m sitting in the tub, completely naked. Her eyes scan the room. Her shoulders sag.
I give her a sheepish look. “Hellena, I'm fine.”
“You don't look fine.”
“Neither do you,” I counter.
“You scared the shit out of me. I thought something had happened.”
“Yeah, well, something did and it scared the shit out of me, too. My leg gave out while I was showering and I fell down.” I feel like a fucking lame duck.
“That’s not what I meant…” In a heartbeat she’s at the side of the tub on her knees, brushing the side of my face, fear and pain in her eyes. She’s been through it tonight. “I don’t know what I would do if?—”
“It's okay. I’m fine, really.” I give her my best wet dog grin.
“I’m sorry, Gav.”
“Why are you sorry? What’s wrong, Lena?”
“I'll tell you soon. The Ball was a disaster.”
“That explains a lot. Things have been off all night.”
She looks up, searching my gaze. “How so?”
“Well, from what I gathered, both sides of the Block/Ghost conflict are gearing up for something big. Movement all through the hills. There are alarms going off all over Sanctum, like all hell broke loose. I was watching a live feed when the Ghosts set off our perimeter sensors. I think they’re holding a grudge for what I did to their guys at the docks.”
“Oh, my God. I’ve put a target on our backs.”
“Don’t go there. I don’t regret it. Those fuckers deserved every broken bone. Our new security fence and a few additions of my own discouraged them from coming closer. For now.”
“Oh, Gavin.” This is just icing on a rotten cake for her.
We sit there for a minute with our foreheads pressed together before I remember that I’m naked and shivering in the tub.
Hellena notices at the same time. “Um, do you need help?”
“W—uh, no.” My cheeks flush. Dammit. How does she do that to me?
But she’s already got the water turned back on, checking it with the back of her hand, letting it heat up. She plugs the drain and gazes back over her shoulder, our eyes locking.
“I–I was almost done?—”
I let her shush me. “Let me take care of you. Please.”
Her hands dribble hot water over my skin, lathering as she goes. Up my legs, my arms, carefully avoiding what’s left of my stitches. She takes her time on my back, my chest, her eyes trailing every movement of the washcloth clutched in her paint-streaked hand.
I watch her face, her soft, round cheeks, the way her lips purse as she focuses. It helps subdue my embarrassment. No one has ever washed me like this.
The longer I watch her, the more lost in her I become. Until there’s not a single bit of self-consciousness left, and all I can do is watch her work, savoring the feeling of her hands all over me. Before long, my eyes close, letting the hot water and her fingers drag away all of the stress that the past few weeks of recovery have piled onto my shoulders.
The waiting, wondering, has been hell.
I here a soft sniff of a laugh, opening my eyes to see the edge of her lip curling. Her smile spreads as she looks down, her eyebrows shooting up slowly.
