Page 92 of Before We Break

He even thought to use my bath salts.

“Arms up.” His knuckles brush my belly as he lifts my shirt over my head. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen already, so that part doesn’t bother me, but when he reaches for my sleep shorts, my hands snap to his.

Oanic flashes in his eyes. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“No. I’m ok. It’s just… there’s always a lot of blood.”

So much so that I’ve started wearing adult diapers because it’s easier to control. Tears sting my eyes, and I stare at my feet. The last thing I want is for Noah to see me in a fucking diaper. Soft hands cradle my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “I’m not scared of blood, Clio.”

I get the feeling he won’t let this go if I don’t tell him the whole truth.

“It’s not just that. I wear diapers. It’s not sexy. I just… I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“I couldn’t care less what you’re wearing under your pajamas. You could be hiding another pair of your ridiculous strawberry panties under there, and I would still stay. I’m here for you.”

“Rude. Those are my favorite.”

“I like them better on the floor. Now stop arguing and let me help you. The water’s getting cold.”

Noah hooks his fingers into the sides of my shorts and slides them down my legs, taking the blood-soaked underwear with them.

My cheeks heat, and I pinch my eyes shut against the wave of embarrassment.

Noah just takes my hand and holds it while I lower myself into the tub. The warm water rises to encompass me, and I sink back against the ledge, gazing up at him as my bottom lip trembles. “Thank you.”

He nods once, picks up the underwear, tosses them in the trash, and discards the rest of my clothes in the laundry basket. No hesitation, no judgement.

Just when I think he’s going to leave me to my own devices, he kneels at my side with a washcloth in hand, squeezing a quarter-size dollop of body wash onto the fabric. His touch is gentle but deliberate as he carefully washes one arm, trails across my chest and neck before gliding down the other arm. “Is this ok?”

I close my eyes and nod. No one’s ever taken care of me like this. My emotions threaten to spill out of me as my pain begins to ease, replaced by an altogether different ache—more dangerous and potent than the physical one.

“Spread your legs for me, baby.”

I swallow around the lump in my throat as his hand dips beneath the water, stroking lightly up my calf, to my thighs, then he’s there, wiping the blood from between my legs.

Another wave of embarrassment tries to pull me under, but I refuse to let it.

He wrings out the cloth and lays it over the side of the tub.

“Turn around for me so I can wash your hair.”

“It’s fine. I can just⁠—”

“You agreed. Twenty-four hours.”

He pulls the plug to let out some of the tepid water, then turns on the tap, dipping his hand beneath the stream to test the temperature. Once he’s satisfied, he pulls the lever to activate the handheld showerhead.

“Lie your head back and close your eyes.”

His gentle fingers run through the strands, massaging my scalp as the water cascades from my forehead down the length of my hair. A shiver rolls through me at the delicious sensation. The water stops, and he repeats the process, lathering my orange blossom shampoo into the roots before rinsing. By the time he’s done with the conditioner, I’m boneless.

Half an hour later, I’m dressed in my comfiest pjs with my head on his lap, my menstruation crustacean pressed to my lower belly by a large palm that doesn’t belong to me, and my favorite blanket draped over my body. I didn’t have to lift a finger, and with each thoughtful step, I could feel my walls crumbling, the foundation shaking beneath my feet.

“Noah?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you here?”