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“It’s just to keep your cuffs dry.”

I look between him and the tub. “How?”

Adrien seems to register the fear in my face. “It’s nothing painful.” He steps closer, slow enough that I could pull away if I wanted; I don’t. “I’m not suspending your weight or doing anything stupid. You’ll be sitting normally. This is only to keep your hands up and away from the water.”

“Oh, um…” I look toward the shower curtain rod, a nervous flutter in my chest. “Okay…”

Adrien’s eyebrows rise slightly before he smooths his expression back to its usual calm.

Maybe it’s because I agreed too easily, or that I agreed at all?

But Dad trusted him.

The thought comes automatically now.

Dad trusted Adrien.

That doesn’t mean Adrien is harmless. Clearly.

But it has to mean something.

And yesterday, every time I asked him to stop or change something because it hurt or embarrassed me too much, he listened. He didn’t argue. He just stopped, adjusted, and moved on like my “no” was a fact of the room, not a problem to negotiate.

Maybe that means something too.

Adrien steps behind me. “Stand.”

I do. My knees are less reliable than I’d like them to be, but they hold.

His hands settle briefly at my waist as he positions me closer to the tub—two fingers hooked into the fabric of my shirt, then gone—and the touch is so ordinary it really shouldn’t send heat racing beneath my skin, but it does.

His palm spans nearly half my side. I can feel its exact size through my shirt, warm and real.

I hold completely still. If I move, he’ll feel me shaking. If I breathe too hard, he’ll hear it.

He seems to notice anyway; he notices everything.

“You alright?” he asks carefully.

“Yep.” My voice sounds too high. It cracks on the single syllable like I’m thirteen again.

Adrien waits. He doesn’t push. He just stands there behind me in the steam and lets me decide what to do next, which is somehow so much worse than being told what to do.

I force myself to breathe normally. In through the nose, out through the mouth, then tell him, “I’m okay.”

“Tell me if that changes,” he murmurs.

“I will.”

“I need to take your clothes off, but you’ll be good, won’t you, Kamden?”

“I—Y-yeah, I’ll be good,” I stammer, squeezing my eyes shut.

He gives me a minute, then undoes the cuffs, quickly tugs off my shirt, then recuffs my hands in front of me.

“Pants next,” he says, almost gently.

I nod, because saying anything would be impossible. He kneels and undoes the button and zipper, then waits for me to step out. I do, clumsily.