Page 31 of Hush, Little Baby

Every pass of the cloth seems to pull some different reaction from him. A flinch when I lift his wrist. A shallow inhale when I sweep over the inside of his elbow. A stiffening when I guide his arm aside to reach his ribs, though I keep my touch brisk and practical, careful not to linger where fear has already settled.

He watches me the entire time as if waiting for the moment my gentleness turns to something terrible.

When I reach for the shampoo, he blinks. “What are you doing?”

“Your hair.”

“No.” His hand shoots up, clutching at the damp strands near his neck. “No, don’t. It tangles. It’ll hurt.”

“Then I will be careful.”

“You don’t know how.” His certainty is sharp enough to be insulting.

I arch an eyebrow. “I once removed a sliver of glass from Constantine’s eye with tweezers and vodka while being shot at from a balcony. I can wash your hair.”

Charlie stares at me incredulously. “You—no, you didn’t.”

My lips twitch up. “I assure you, I did. Do you want me to call him in here to tell you himself?”

He does not seem to know what to do, and just looks at me, water beading on his lashes, lips parted around an argument he cannot quite form.

“Not that I’d let him see you naked, of course. He can tell you from behind the door.”

“Are you real?” he mumbles, bending his head when I gently guide it. His confusion and disbelief at my statement have apparently overrode his concern about me washing his hair.

“Last time I checked,” I answer lightly, cupping my hand against his forehead to shield his face and wet his hair, pouring warm water from a little silver bath pitcher until the strands darken and cling together. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, shoulders hunched, and fingers digging into his own knees beneath the water.

“Maybe I went into a coma and am imagining you,” he says.

I laugh. “Why do you think that?” I work the shampoo in from the crown down, fingertips firm but gentle. His hair is finer than it looked dry, neglected but not hopeless, and after a minute of careful massaging, the scent of clean citrus begins to rise through the steam.

“‘Cause you don’t seem real. You’re like one of those over-the-top characters in the books I read.”

I chuckle, “And what books are these, baby?” Then, after a particularly indulgent pass of my fingers over his scalp, he makes a tiny sound that he immediately tries to swallow.

I pause, and mortification blooms across his face.

“You didn’t hear that,” he grumbles.

“I’m not sure what you mean, baby,” I say, playing along. “I’m just waiting for you to tell me what books you’re reading.”

Charlie makes another embarrassed little noise, but this one has less misery in it. His fingers worry at his knees beneath the water.

“Books,” he mumbles.

“Yes, sweetheart. Most people are familiar with the concept.”

He huffs.

It is tiny. Barely there. A scrap of sound, more breath than laughter, but I hear it, and the greed that rises in me is almost indecent. I want more of it. I want every small, involuntary thing he gives away before he can stop himself. Every softened syllable, every embarrassed glance, every flare of temper that proves there is still something alive under all that exhaustion.

“What kind of books?” I ask, massaging slowly behind his ear.

His shoulders loosen by a fraction before he catches himself and stiffens again. “Nothing.”

“Nothing is a difficult genre to shelve.”

“Just… romance.”