the spray of the warm shower water cascades down, filling the small bathroom with steam. carl leans against the tiled wall, his damp hair clinging to his face, his single blue eye half-closed, as if the heat has momentarily melted away his usual guarded demeanor. his eyepatch, set on the sink, leaves the empty socket exposed, though the dim light softens its harsh reality.

you’re there with him, standing close, a bar of soap in your hand, your fingers slick as you work a lather into his hair. it’s long, tangled from the constant wear of his sheriff’s hat and the endless chaos of the world outside.

“you don’t have to do this,” he mumbles, his voice low and rough, though there’s no protest in his tone. his hands stay planted by his sides, hesitant to touch you, unsure of how to bridge the gap between your proximity and the sharp boundaries he’s grown used to.

“it’s fine,” you reply, your voice cutting softly through the sound of water. your hands move gently, massaging his scalp, careful not to tug at the knots too hard. his hair feels softer than you expected—beneath all the dirt and grit, there’s still something untouched by the cruelty of the world.

he closes his eye briefly, his breath hitching slightly when your fingers brush too close to the nape of his neck. “feels weird,” he murmurs, almost to himself. his lips twitch into the faintest smile before he presses them into a thin line, as if unsure he’s allowed to feel anything light in this moment.

your hands work methodically, rinsing the soap from his hair, careful to avoid the eye socket as you tilt his head back slightly. he doesn’t flinch, though his shoulders remain stiff, his guard still partially up.

“there,” you say softly, stepping back to let him take the lead again.

he lets out a long breath, running his hands through his now-clean hair. “thanks,” he mutters, his voice quieter than usual. his blue eye locks onto yours, his hands finally reaching your hips gently.