KIER
I led her trembling body toward the shower stall, my jaw tight. "What's the matter?" I asked, noticing the thick steam curling in the air. She had cranked the water far too hot.
I adjusted it, lowering the temperature. The steam began to fade, but she stayed hunched against the wall, shivering, fragile as glass. My chest constricted. How could someone be so terrified of a shower?
Her front faced me, pale and scarred. I forced slow breaths. Losing my cool wouldn't help her. She needed reassurance, not judgment.
"Genesis," I said softly, stepping closer. She flinched but didn't retreat. Progress.
"It's just water," I whispered, voice calm. My hand hovered near her shoulder, but I didn't touch her. She needed control, and I wasn't about to take it from her.
She tilted her head slightly, listening. Eyes down, still not meeting mine. I could see the tremor in her fingers. Tiny, almost imperceptible, but it spoke volumes.
I reached for the detachable showerhead. The faint sound of water shifting made her jump.
"Look," I said, holding it out. A gentle spray hit my palm. "See? Harmless."
She peeked at me through wet lashes. Green eyes wide, lips quivering. She stayed.
"Here," I whispered, moving slowly. "Feel it. Warm, not hot."
I let the water touch her arm. She flinched but didn't pull away. A slight nod. Tentative. Maybe trust. Enough to continue.
"I'm here to help. But you need to let me. Deal?" I lowered my tone, steady, patient. She said nothing, yet remained. Cautious agreement.
I rinsed her arms, then her hair. Every muscle in her body was tense. She flinched at every touch, every sound. Someone had hurt her badly. Anger rose, hot and furious, but I pushed it down. She needed calm, not my rage.
Shampoo in hand, I explained slowly, massaging it gently into her scalp. "Is this okay?" I asked.
She nodded. Small, fragile nod. Good.
I guided her through washing, demonstrating the soap and washcloth carefully. Her breathing was quick, shallow. Each movement was a test, each flinch a reminder of her past. I stayed calm, methodical, speaking softly, showing her she was safe.
Rinsing her hair, water cascading down her back, I saw her fully for the first time. Pale, delicate, scars standing out against her smooth skin. Fragile but strong, silent yet screaming in her eyes. My chest tightened. She had endured so much, and yet here she was, surviving.
Finished, I handed her a towel, stepping back. "You did well," I said. Her eyes widened. A flicker of emotion passed across her face—surprise, maybe relief, maybe the first trace of trust.
I gestured toward the bed. Soiled sheets gone. A blue shirt, one of mine, lay neatly. I guided it over her head. Loose, falling mid-thigh. She recoiled slightly but didn't resist. She let me help.
Her small, hesitant movements made my chest ache with something I couldn't name. Protective instinct? Compassion? Maybe both. I stepped back, giving her space.
"Come with me," I instructed, moving toward the door. Her soft footsteps followed. She moved slowly, cautiously, like every step was calculated.
The quiet between us was thick, but not uncomfortable. Her first glances toward me were fleeting, unsure, yet curious. Each glance felt like a tiny victory. She was starting to look, to notice, to maybe trust.
As we reached the hallway, I noticed the way her fingers brushed the doorframe, tentative but deliberate. Every detail, every hesitation told me how scared she truly was. And yet, she followed. She let me lead her.
I could feel the tension in her body, the way her shoulders hunched, the slight trembling of her hands. But she wasn't running. Not yet. That was progress too.
This was just the beginning. Small steps. Tiny victories. She didn't know it yet, but every act of compliance, every hint of trust, would build the bridge between fear and safety. Between isolation and connection.
I couldn't help but wonder… who had hurt her so badly? And why? The scars on her skin weren't just physical; they were a map of her pain. And as I guided her toward the next room, my mind burned with questions and a protective fury I couldn't ignore.
This wasn't just about a shower. This was the first moment she allowed me into her world. Fragile. Scared. But slowly… beginning to trust. And I would do everything I could to protect her, no matter how long it took.