The water is warm, but you barely feel it. You stand there, head bowed, the steam curling around your face. Your chest feels heavy, and you don’t know how long you’ve been standing like this — staring at the tiles, listening to the water run.

Then you feel him. Simon steps into the shower quietly, like he always does when he knows you’re fragile. His presence fills the small space, grounding you.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly, almost a whisper.

You don’t answer. You can’t. But you don’t move away when he reaches for the soap.

Simon is gentle. He takes your arm first, holding it like it’s something precious. The water runs over both of you as he lathers his hands, smoothing the soap over your skin. When he reaches the raw, stinging places — the ones you’ve hidden from everyone — he’s even softer. He doesn’t say anything about them. He just washes them carefully, like they’re wounds that deserve to be cared for, rinsing them clean under the stream.

You close your eyes, breathing in the faint scent of him mixed with soap.

“Let me,” he murmurs, and you let him wash the rest of you — your hair, your shoulders, your back. Every touch is slow, steady, patient, like he has all the time in the world.