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She’s been letting me run her baths and wash her hair. I’m dreading the idea she might not want or need that from me anymore.

“You don’t have to,” she replies, nibbling at her lip.

“I want to, if you’re wanting it done. I’m not sure what your routine is.”

“No, it is due around now. I aim for every four days, usually,” she says, slowly nudging Moshi from her lap. “I should do it myself.”

Rosy doesn’t say it with confidence or joy. It’s resigned, and it’s clear it’s not what she really wants. Although it’s what I want, even if it will take some repetition to help her understand.

“No, I got it.”

I walk into the bathroom and run the bath water, adding some softly fragranced cocoa butter and vanilla products. If she’s noticed, she hasn’t mentioned it, but I’ve been purchasing more options; everything from fizzlers and salts to oils.

“Oh, it smells good in here,” Rosy reflects as she comes in behind me.

I take a moment to smile, enjoying knowing this is something I can do for her.

Straightening, I turn. “Cocoa butter. I like it too. It’s almost ready, if you want to get in.”

She nods, and I step in to help undress her. It’s also something I’ve done since the day after we brought her back. Her hands had trembled too much to do it herself, so I’d stepped in, eased her out of the borrowed clothes whilst her eyes remained locked on me, not down at her abused skin.

I don’t know if she continues to let me do it for her, or for me, but until she asks me to stop, I’ll keep taking care of her.

Once I’ve removed her cow-print leggings and underwear, I stand, lift the hem of her T-shirt, and tug it over her head. It’s oversized, almost sliding off a shoulder, and bright pink.

I take her hand and guide her into the warm bubbles, a satisfied smile tugging across my face as she lets out a contented hum.

“Music or audiobook?” I ask, pulling out my phone and waiting for her to decide.

“I think music, please? You pick the playlist.”

I nod and scroll through the music app. I select a cosy instrumental jazz mix, wanting something to help relax her.

She smiles softly as she leans back, resting her head on the edge and closing her eyes. “This is nice. I like it.”

“Do you like jazz?” I ask, rolling my shirt sleeves up, then kneel and get a clean flannel.

“If that’s what this is, then yes? I’ve not really listened to it before. So far it feels a little upbeat, but softly so? Like I can relax but still enjoy it,” she says.

Even as I take her hand and start washing the arm closest to me, my gaze locks on her face, drifting to the smattering of bubbles along her jaw and neck from when she first dipped into the bath.

“It’s generally upbeat; there’s a lot of soul to it. You can really feel the music, which is what I love about it.”

I move on to her leg, carefully lifting her ankle above the water. Being this close to her most evenings, I’ve watched how each bruise has changed colour. Most of them have slowly faded. Each cut has healed, scabbed over, and become a faint line. Yet, no matter how much they’ve healed, I can still picture them all in my mind.

Some nights I dream they keep coming back, none of them healing like they should. No matter how well I take care of her or try to protect her, they keep returning. It has me awakening feeling helpless.

“Do you listen to music a lot?” she asks, oblivious to my jarring thoughts.

Slipping her leg back, I pick up the other and try to keep my focus on the Rosy here, now, who’s healing. At least on the outside she is; internally, she still has me concerned.

“When I’m going through homework or planning lessons, I often listen to this playlist and other similar ones. I find having instrumental sounds playing in the background helps my mind focus.”

I run the cloth over her foot. Her toes curl, and she jolts back, sloshing water at me.

“I’m so sorry. It was a reflex,” she gasps, her eyes wide and mouth agape.

I chuckle, noticing most of my shirt’s wet. Trickles of water run down my face and in my lashes. “It’s okay. I should’ve remembered after the first time,” I say, feeling a touch of déjà vu as I pick a towel from the side and mop myself up the best I can.