Page 176 of Iced Up Love: Part Two
Because part of me still needs it.
Because part of me still wants them close.
Zach stays with me as we move into the bathroom, his hand light at my back, careful, measured, like he’s constantly calculating how much pressure I can handle, how much space I need, how much is too much.
Everything about him is controlled.
Deliberate.
When the water starts running, the sound fills the space in a way that feels grounding, familiar, and for a second, I just stand there, letting it settle into me, letting it quiet the noise in my head.
I step under it slowly.
The warmth hits my skin and I close my eyes for a moment, letting it run over me, letting it wash away the remnants of the hospital, the smell of antiseptic, the feeling of being trapped in that place where everything was out of my control.
Zach moves behind me, careful, steady, his hands gentle as he helps me adjust, helps me balance, helps me move without pulling anything too sharply.
He reaches for the shampoo, working it through my hair with slow, deliberate movements, his fingers massaging lightly against my scalp, and for a second, it feels good.
Really good.
I exhale without meaning to, my body softening slightly under his touch, and I feel the way he notices it immediately.
“Does that feel good, baby?” he murmurs.
There it is.
A glimpse.
A flicker of something familiar.
“Yeah,” I say softly.
He leans in, pressing a kiss to the side of my head, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary, and for a second, something sparks in my chest.
Recognition.
Connection.
But it fades just as quickly. Because the way he touches me after that shifts again.
Careful. Measured. Like I’m something fragile. Like I might break.
He washes the rest of me the same way, his hands light, controlled, avoiding my wound, avoiding anything that might hurt, anything that might push too far.
It should feel safe.
It does feel safe.
But it also feels… distant.
Like there’s a layer between us that wasn’t there before.
Like he’s holding something back. Like all of them are.
And I don’t know how to reach through that yet.
When I step out of the shower, he wraps me in a towel immediately, drying me carefully, avoiding my side, adjusting everything so I don’t have to think about it, don’t have to manage it, don’t have to do anything for myself.
