Caitlyn’s fingers thread meticulously through the strands of your hair as she pulls the comb through it. It’s still damp, especially near the ends, yet a little drier near the roots, and you don’t mind as she strokes through the change of how wet your hair is to how dry it is.

A towel is wrapped around you— it’s a navy blue, pulled over your body and your shoulders to help you get dry, and every few minutes, she rubs at your shoulders and makes you feel a little more of the love that you need.

When she finishes combing through your hair, she helps you up onto your feet, and she moves closer to you, her soft lips meeting the roots of your hair, and your scalp, before she’s pulling the towel off you and helping you into your nightwear, which is actually her pyjamas.

A breath escapes her lips as she guides you towards the bed, and gently sets you down atop of the sheets, before pulling the duvet over your body.

You look horrified. Or out of it. Numb. Or maybe you’re angry. Raging at her for nurturing you. She doesn’t know what the expression on your face is, but she wants you to know that it’s okay for you to feel like this.

“I’ll get you a drink.” She mutters softly, her hand leaving your hair for a moment as she fetches a glass of water. When she’s out of the room, another deep breath leaves her lips, and soon, she’s back with you, holding your hand as she gets into bed with you.

She understands why. Everything that has been going on has shoved you, head—first, into a depressive state. She doesn’t mind. She will always look after you.

“You know you can talk to me when you’re ready, darling.” Her voice is low— almost a whisper. She doesn’t want to startle you. Or make you upset.