Page 29 of Hush, Little Baby

“Yes. I live in New York.”

“No,” he repeats, louder this time, and the word breaks halfway through. “No, I’m not. You can’t—I have rent. I have work. I have—” He stops abruptly, as if even he cannot make the list sound convincing.

A club he visits alone.

An apartment he is ashamed of.

A body he treats like an enemy.

A life held together by overdue notices and borrowed comfort.

I say none of this aloud, but I’m sure he’s thinking the same.

Charlie tries to step back, forgetting the tub is behind him. His heel knocks against the porcelain, and he jolts, arms flailing for balance.

I catch him immediately.

The movement puts him against me, his hands landing on my chest, his breath hot and panicked against my throat. For a moment, he goes rigid. Then, very slowly, his fingers curl into my shirt.

Not holding me.

Not yet.

But holding on.

“Be careful, baby,” I murmur, settling one arm around his back. “Don’t want you getting hurt.”

He should shove me away.

He should scream, perhaps. Bite, curse, or fight.

Rather, he stands there trembling, his forehead nearly touching my sternum, and whispers, “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

The ache in his voice is genuine enough to quiet even my more selfish impulses.

I lower my mouth to his hair, not quite kissing him. Just breathing him in through the veil of steam. He smells faintly sweet.

“You don’t have to understand it all tonight,” I tell him. “Tonight, you only have to let me take care of you.”

“Why are you doing this?”

I cup his cheek. “Because you need someone.”

His expression twists. “I didn’t ask for you.”

“No,” I say. “You didn’t.” I turn him to face the tub. His resistance is mostly gone now, drained out of him by fear and confusion and the brutal effort of remaining awake. When I help him step over the side, he clutches my forearm so tightly his nails bite through the sleeve of my shirt.

The first touch of water makes him gasp.

“Too hot?” I ask.

He shakes his head quickly, then seems to remember he doesn’t want to cooperate with me and stops.

It’s cute.

“It’s okay,” he mutters.

“Good boy.”