Water drips slowly onto the shower tile. A drop, another drop, with a tinkling sound that recoils into a distracting burbling. His eyes are half-closed, your fingers in his hair, lathering up the shampoo. Not a single word between you, but the silence is comfortable after all the horror.

Nightmares, as it turns out, can be prophetic dreams. Hell had caught up with him — a consequence of Neil's audacity and selfish desire, even if it was the only one he'd ever allowed himself. A wish for freedom that had come true, even if at such a cost. The scars on his cheeks ached, even taped with pieces of waterproof cellophane — every movement of his facial muscles caused a stinging pain he couldn't dodge. It was the easiest thing he'd experienced in the last few days, though. After going through the girdle, the butcher's axe, the skin-rubbing ties on his wrists, and hours of pure agony, dealing with the pain of the burns seemed more than realistic. Even if his functionality was narrowed down to raising and lowering his arms and leisurely walking — even though he stubbornly claimed otherwise.

He had always been independent — had been forced to be so. The part of his life that had been spent with his mother had taught him basic survival skills and the simple truth that he himself was the only one he could rely on. But, now that he's no longer Nathaniel or one of those made-up names, but officially Neil Josten, with that suspicious hope of safety hovering around him, he can admit that it's actually nice to have behind his back someone other than himself.

Because even if you don't say it, Neil sees it in your eyes. In the movements of your fingers in his hair — contrastingly careful, almost tender if he didn't know you enough, compared to the usual sharp touches. Like you care. Like you care about him.