Vacant stare crosses Hood’s features, rippling like a stone tossed into a lake. He’s been in the shower longer than his routine usually lasts. The water isn’t quite cold, but it’s not the blanket it once resembled.
The door to the bathroom remains open. He doesn’t want to take any chances, despite being the safest he’s ever been. Ever felt.
He focuses too much on breathing, exaggerating the action as if it isn’t innate. His chest feels heavy and he swallows hard, hoping to quell the rising panic he can’t seem to effectively smother.
Moving too slowly welcomes devastation. It’s an absurd line of thinking, yet it seems inescapable. The life he’s built with you is a far cry from what he’s accustomed to, and nothing going awry has created a different kind of restlessness he wishes to crush beneath his sore, overused fists.
Violence. That’s easy to face. He can charge at it like a bull, adrenaline numbing him until it wanes; by then, the cycle begins again. He doesn’t have to dwell if his mind doesn’t 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. He’s open, infinitely bleeding. He glances at the blurred ceiling and exhales, squeezing his eyes shut.
He’s 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 you’re there, it’s just you; you’re 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 you’re nestled into more elevated than the other, but your weight- your skin caressing his- deflates him a little bit.
“Been in here awhile,” you hum, sending vibrations to the ends of his toes. The tips of your fingers stroke directly below his belly button. It’s… too nice. Too tender.
“Kinda chilly.” You shiver, shaking him slightly. “Did the Devil decide he didn’t want you after all?” you tease, knowing he likes the water’s 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. “Turns out I was too much competition.”
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. Doesn’t mean it will make sense in the morning.
“Here. Let me. Before hell truly freezes over.”
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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