The warm water ran in steady rivulets down your hair, trickling over your shoulders and into the bathwater. You sat with your knees drawn up, eyes closed, breathing in the faint, clean scent of the castle’s soap.

Keith knelt beside the tub, sleeves pushed up, hands in your hair. His touch was careful—almost tentative at first—as he worked the shampoo into a lather. The pads of his fingers moved in slow, soothing circles against your scalp, and a tension you didn’t realize you’d been carrying began to unwind.

“Too rough?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Feels nice.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, rinsing his hands before gently cupping water over your hair to wash the suds away. The water poured warm against your neck, sliding down your spine. He repeated the motion again and again, never rushing.

When his fingers combed through the damp strands to untangle them, his touch was light, almost reverent. He’d pause whenever you flinched—whether from a knot or the fading bruises at your shoulders—waiting until you relaxed before continuing.

“You take care of everyone else,” he said after a moment, voice quiet over the sound of the water. “When’s the last time you let someone take care of you?”