Page 41 of Her Wicker Guardian

Locke lifts one hand from the wall and runs it over his opposite arm. Slowly.

He watches his fingers move across wet willow as if he’s discovering his own body. The fibers under his palm have become darker and more flexible. He bends his wrist, turns his hand, touches the small green growth along his forearm.

Then both hands travel across his chest, down his ribs and stomach.

I should probably give him privacy, except he still doesn’t know how the shower works.

That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking with it.

His hands reach his hips. One moves lower.

My throat goes dry, and I have to swallow.

He touches himself with exactly the same matter-of-fact curiosity he gave his forearm, fingers briefly moving over the woven shape between his legs as if he is checking what the water has done there too. There is no embarrassment on his face and no invitation in the gesture.

I’m the only person in the room who knows humans have rules about this.

My eyes snap upward before they can linger. The fan needs cleaning.

Good to know.

Water continues to run. I hear the low resonant hum again and wait until my breathing feels normal before I risk looking.

Locke has moved on to his thigh. He bends one knee, watches water run through the weave there, then looks at me.

“Water good.”

Two words.

I blink. “Yes.”

He touches his chest. “Water… good Locke.”

“I think the grammar needs work, but yes.”

He smiles.

An actual smile this time. Still small, still slightly strange because his face isn’t built like mine, but unmistakable.

My own smile answers before I can stop it.

The shower runs for several more minutes. I show him the handle so he can change the water himself, and he experiments carefully with warmer and cooler until he understands the range.

Then I point to the faucet. “Off.”

He turns it.

The sudden silence fills the bathroom while water continues dripping from him into the tub. I hand him a towel.

He looks at it.

“Dry.”

I rub one end over my arm, and he copies me. The towel catches slightly on the rougher parts of his weave, so he changes the pressure without being told.

By the time he’s finished, the difference is astonishing. The willow is richer in color. The leaves along his shoulders are fully open again, and even the way he moves is looser.

“You really needed that.”