Page 143 of Trigger Happy Ending

Soren dips the cloth into the water, wrings it out, then starts at my shoulders. Slow, careful strokes. My eyes close involuntarily, and I allow myself to feel the warmth of the cloth drag down my arms, over my collarbones, across the top of my chest. He washes my skin with such care, I’m lulled into a state of complete bliss. He’s careful around every bruise, every healing cut, every place that’s still clearly recovering.

After a while, he wets my hair with one hand, shielding my face with the other. Then he works shampoo through it, fingers massaging my scalp in slow circles.

I swear my soul leaves my body because what the fuck is this? No one has ever touched me like this, let alone washed my fucking hair. It’s an intimacy I’ve never experienced before, and from the look on Soren’s face, neither has he.

“I thought about this,” he says eventually.

I open my eyes. “What?”

“Taking care of you.” Soren combs his fingers through my hair. “I kept thinking if you woke up, I’d get you out of the hospital as fast as possible. Bring you here and look after you. Like this.”

Something tightens around my throat, it feels like a hand, but it’s my emotions. I want to answer him, but words simply fail me. I remain silent.

When he’s done with my hair, he grabs a towel and spreads it near the tub.

“C'mon. Stand up slowly.”

I grip the sides of the bath, but I'm wobbly as I straighten and stand. His hands are there instantly, holding me into him to ensure I don't slip. Water runs from my body onto his bare chest, and he doesn’t even flinch. He wraps the towel around me, and helps me step on the mat. He drys me in slow, careful strokes down my arms, shoulders, back, and legs. He kneels to pat dry my feet, and something about that stokes a flame deep inside my gut. The last time Soren kneeled before me like this was on Carson’s yacht. And we all know what happened then.

He wraps another towel around my hair and scoops me up again. I tuck myself against him, like a wounded animal, and let him carry me to the bedroom. He lays me down on the bed, and I sink into the warm, dark sheets beneath me. He disappears for all of thirty seconds, then comes back with a T-shirt and a pair of boxers.

“Here. Wear these,” he says.

I toss the boxers on the floor and give him a look. No way I'm wearing those. I put his T-shirt on though, and then pull the blankets up. I unwrap the towel from my damp hair and hand it to him. He takes it back into the bathroom before popping his head into the bedroom, telling me, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Five minutes later, he comes back with a banana, a sandwich, and another bottle of water. He sits on the edge of the bed silently and watches until I eat it all (which I do, I’m fucking starving). When he’s convinced I’m not about to wither and die anymore, he slides in beside me and pulls me against his chest.

His arm wraps around my waist, and my head settles beneath his chin. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel warm all the way through. My eyes drift to my backpack slumped near the side of the bed.

“Soren?”

“Mm?”

“Can you grab my bag for me?”

He leans over, hooks the strap, and drops it onto the bed beside us. I unzip it slowly and reach inside, removing Soren’s worn leather journal. The second I pull it out, his whole body stills.

“Did you read it?”

I run my hand over the cover. “Every day since I woke up.”

“And?”

How do I tell him it blew apart my insides? That it tore my heart into tiny pieces, only to put me back together again?

I open the journal and flip to the back, then hand it to him.

“I added one.”

He takes it carefully and lowers his eyes to the page.

He raises his eyes to me and swallows hard.

I hope he knows it’s my fucked-up way of saying I love you, because I have such a hard time verbalizing those three words. Speaking those little words into existence terrifies me. I’d rather stare down the barrel of a gun than utter those words aloud.

I exhale, closing my eyes for a second, before opening them again and forcing the words out. “I heard you.”

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”