Vacant stare crosses Hoodâs features, rippling like a stone tossed into a lake. Heâs been in the shower longer than his routine usually lasts. The water isnât quite cold, but itâs not the blanket it once resembled.
The door to the bathroom remains open. He doesnât want to take any chances, despite being the safest heâs ever been. Ever felt.
He focuses too much on breathing, exaggerating the action as if it isnât innate. His chest feels heavy and he swallows hard, hoping to quell the rising panic he canât seem to effectively smother.
Moving too slowly welcomes devastation. Itâs an absurd line of thinking, yet it seems inescapable. The life heâs built with you is a far cry from what heâs accustomed to, and nothing going awry has created a different kind of restlessness he wishes to crush beneath his sore, overused fists.
Violence. Thatâs easy to face. He can charge at it like a bull, adrenaline numbing him until it wanes; by then, the cycle begins again. He doesnât have to dwell if his mind doesnât put him in a position to. He can fake it either way. He can shove it all down where it never sees the light of day.
Here, he thinks constantly. Heâs open, infinitely bleeding. He glances at the blurred ceiling and exhales, squeezing his eyes shut.
Heâs in the middle of a spinning room, but his body is at a standstill. He yearns for the quiet that comes with no longer feeling lightheaded and dizzy. For the room to stop spinning. For his insides to feel at one instead of at war. One half anticipating discord, the other begging for peace.
Your soft voice reaches him through his stupor, soothing it with your impossibly deep understanding of his thorn-encased affliction. His heart jumps in his throat, but it drops back where it should be when you inform him that youâre there, itâs just you; youâre going to join him.
Immediately, he straightens. He almost turns toward you. Your arms around his waist and your chin atop his shoulder whisper at him to stay put.
You are so warm. Like a blanket. He is tense, the shoulder youâre nestled into more elevated than the other, but your weight- your skin caressing his- deflates him a little bit.
âBeen in here awhile,â you hum, sending vibrations to the ends of his toes. The tips of your fingers stroke directly below his belly button. Itâs⊠too nice. Too tender.
âKinda chilly.â You shiver, shaking him slightly. âDid the Devil decide he didnât want you after all?â you tease, knowing he likes the waterâs swathing heat to damn near cause first degree burns.
He chuckles, angling his head so his face is closer to yours. His stubble tickles your cheek. âTurns out I was too much competition.â
You laugh, and the sound is fucking heaven enough. How did he get here? Earn the right? The privilege?
He can replay the night you met as many times as he desires. Doesnât mean it will make sense in the morning.
âHere. Let me. Before hell truly freezes over.â
Granting him no room to deny you, you take hold of his woodsy, earth-scented shampoo, working a sufficient amount into his scalp, stirring within a wandering composure that once refused submission. It begins as an almost unbearable ache, until it finally lets go and gradually trickles into blissful release.
He falls into you and sighs, no longer gasping for air.
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